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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219494">The Final Assault on Tol Ascarnen</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal1718/pseuds/metal1718'>metal1718</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:48:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>52,700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal1718/pseuds/metal1718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Members of a kinship, separated by necessity, work to retake Tol Ascarnen. Meanwhile, the Forces of Angmar within the castle are beset by an unrelenting ancient evil that they must also overcome.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Fan fiction about original characters (toons) from the MMORPG.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><h1>THE FINAL ASSAULT ON TOL ASCARNEN</h1><h2>A Lord of the Rings Online Fan-Fiction</h2><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><h2>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h2><p>A very special thank you to the years of gaming Standing Stones Games, and previous companies, have brought us. You guys have inspired thousands of hours of fun, and this story wouldn't have been possible without your creativity and development - thank you.</p><p>Sindarin translations were edited by Xand of http://sindarinlessons.weebly.com/ . I could not have accomplished them without your patience and support. Thank you so very much, and please, for us fans, keep up the excellent work.</p><p>Until the End is a kinship that I've been with longest, through both rough and good times, and I know it'll prove true to its namesake. You guys are the best, and I hope you enjoy the story as much as I liked writing all of your characters.</p><p>Last, to my good friend Luci - I'm not sure there's much to be said that isn't already. &lt;3, and thanks for encouraging me to do this.</p><p>
  <em>Gi hannon, mellyn.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Chapter 1</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>AN OLD THREAT RETURNED</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Samulson stood in a snow-covered valley. Before him, less than a league away, was a narrow passage between two peaks, a near frozen river beneath a stone bridge covered in snow and ice. Behind him was the Orc Camp, the scent of it was stifled by cold gusts, funneled through the throat of Arador's End, that brought flecks of ice and snow from the north. The freezing white specks peppered his long, brown beard, and his weathered cloak and leather armor looked a little more wild when covered in it.</p><p>"What is a scout bearing the hand of the Black Appendage tribe doing in the Ettenmoors?" he asked, his voice low and quiet, as slow as ice drifting upon still waters against the freezing winds.</p><p>Before him was an orc, a javelin through its chest, pinned halfway down the shaft to the icy ground below. Black blood ran freely from the wound and its wretched mouth as it coughed and cursed. A pool of black had begun to melt the snow beneath the orc, and its pitiful attempts to pull the weapon from the frozen ground had spent its strength.</p><p>Beyond them, the frozen peaks of Arador's End howled amid the cold winds. Past the peaks was a wide valley, barren and cold, home to frost drakes and treacherous goblins in the slopes to its east. Beyond the valley was Isendeep Mine, an ancient fortress of the dwarves that had been claimed by the foes of the free peoples. The lands to the north were bitter and cold, but within them, in an outpost, was his journey's end. Samulson could just barely see the path ahead, beyond the frozen river, a way he had not tread for many passings of the moon. In that time, the power of the Black Lands had fallen and were laid bare. The Enemy was defeated, his armies scattered, and the tribes of the Ettenmoors were left in pieces that retreated to Lugazag and Gramsfoot beyond it.</p><p>In that time, the Black Appendage had been thought defeated, for its members had not been seen. There had been whispers, of course, but when the Enemy fell, it seemed so too did his most radical tribe. Others, most notably the Cohorts of the Red Legion, had tried to claim their power and hold over Angmar, but without the threat of the Witch-king, and little support from the two towers, the servants of the Enemy had been all but defeated.</p><p>Yet, what had been did not last.</p><p>"Speak, and I will send you swiftly to the dark halls of your wretched kind," Sam said while striding forward. From his belt, he pulled free a dagger.</p><p>Before him, the orc choked with laughter, and more black blood was flung from its cracked lips. "I am no scout, <em> tark </em>. I was sent to carve a maggot hole in a mighty captain." Samulson watched as the orc's bloody lips twisted into a sneer. "To keep him from rallying the free peoples and saving your precious Tol Ascarnen."</p><p>"You were made for a fool then, assassin. The Black Appendage left the Ettenmoors to rally with the tribes from the east months ago, and the siege of Tol Ascarnen has not yet ended. It remains in the hands of the free peoples."</p><p>Samulson watched as the orc's head lowered. Its green eyes began to close. "It is you who are the fool, <em> tark</em>. Long have you held that treasured fortress… but no longer. No longer."</p><p>Sam gripped the dagger in his hand a little tighter and came beside the orc. "If you have more to say, speak it now."</p><p>"My knife yearns for captain's blood, but yours will do!" As quick as an angler casting his line, the orc pulled free a cruel, dark blade and thrust it towards Samulson. Pale steel rushed across the orc's dark blade, but the enemy's strength did not hold.</p><p>Samulson's dagger struck the orc in the neck, and he felt the creature's hard bones split beneath the weight of his strike. A moment later, the scout's arm went limp, and his legs gave way. The orc slid down the javelin, coming to rest in the bitter cold. With no more mercy, Samulson ripped the javelin free of the corpse and flicked black blood from its tip.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Through the snow, more a hazy mist than solid stone, he saw his journey's end. Arador's End Outpost, home of Captain-General Haslor. Occasionally, Samulson thought he could see the blue flag of Gondor flapping in the wind, but the sound of snow crunching to the south drew his attention back to the fallen orc, and the chance of battle  gave him pause.</p><p>Samulson crouched, waiting for who approached.</p><p>Cresting a hill was a mountain of a man in a coat of thick fur swept back from the wind and his swift stride, for the snow, no matter its depth, did not seem to slow his steps. Taller than any elf save those of lordly ancestry, taller even than the uruk-hai, his hair had been shaved at the sides and allowed to grow long and wild in the middle. Across both sides of his head, and down the left side of his face, was a pale, blue tattoo decorated with runes. His eyes were a deep gold, and wherever he went the smell of honey seemed to follow.</p><p>Rising, Samulson frowned and called to the man over the distance, "I recall, when last we spoke, that I said I was marching north alone. Alone being what I stressed. Repeatedly."</p><p>The beorning, for his heritage was not of Men alone, was soon upon both Samulson and his defeated foe. When he spoke, his voice was deep and loud, always, as he had little skill with stealth or subtlety, and it was often remarked that he was as blunt as a club, "Even a breeze is trailed by the leaves in its wake. None of us are ever truly alone, Sam."</p><p>"Yet I am certain the leaves, as you call them, were told the direction I traveled. So, who revealed my path so that you might follow?" Samulson watched as Falcon drew nearer.</p><p>"Glolas," answered Falcon without hesitation. "It was easy to learn the path you chose, yet the price was high."</p><p>"Did you harm him?" asked Samulson, worried he had doomed the rune-keeper to torment beneath the massive beorning's wrath.</p><p>"Not one scratch. I found him smoking Southfarthing leaf, though his stores were low," answered Falcon while chuckling.</p><p>"How much was the exchange?" wondered Samulson.</p><p>Falcon snorted and came to a halt before warden. "More gold that most would dare carry, and I am without pipe weed until I can travel from these forsaken lands. And think, I could have stayed where it was warm and enjoyed it."</p><p>Samulson smiled while laughing, happy to see his friend, and held out his arm, which Falcon grasped firmly. "You should have listened to your better judgment, old friend, for you were swindled. All the same, I'm glad you've come. These lands are unkind to travelers."</p><p>Falcon smiled, and the warmth of it reached his golden eyes even in the frozen wastes. "So tell me," he gestured to the corpse, eager to forget his barter with Glolas, "Who was he?"</p><p>Stooping, Samulson took the assassin's helmet from the snow and tossed it to his friend. Within the hands of the beorning, the metal helmet seemed a child's toy, save for its cruel, sharp ridges - and the black hand, a harrowing symbol to any who had fought in the war. "I thought he was a scout, but he boasted more before his death. He claims to have been sent to kill Haslor, before he could rally the free peoples to reclaim Tol Ascarnen." </p><p>Falcon turned the helmet over in his hands, silent.</p><p>"He thought the castle had fallen, but I told him it was not so. Regardless, they are dark tidings."</p><p>"So," Falcon spoke at last, lowering the helmet, "it is true. Dreadweaver has escaped the battles of Mordor and returned to the Ettenmoors with the Black Appendage tribe." As easily as Sam might crush parchment, the black helmet crumpled within Falcon's hands. "But why?"</p><p>Samulson had no answer, save to shake his head. His blue eyes turned north.</p><p>The helmet landed with a thud against the gored corpse. "You still intend to see him, then? After all these months," Falcon added, his wide mouth forming into a frown.</p><p>"I do."</p><p>Falcon sighed. "Haslor turned from the warrior's path long ago. Turn back, leave him to his rest, let us join the forces to the south where our efforts will not be in vain, and he in his wintery solace."</p><p>Samulson turned back to his old friend and smiled. His right arm hefted his spear while the left pulled his cowl back over his head. "If what you think is true, if Dreadweaver has returned, we will need Haslor as never before. Stay if you like old friend, but my path is north between those two peaks, across the frozen river, and the bridge beyond." Samulson turned from his friend, yet not before tossing him a knit pouch, and though the snow slowed him a little, his march was swift as he pressed forward towards the frozen river.</p><p>Falcon sighed and drew the pouch open, revealing a wealth of fine leaf from the harvest past. Smiling, he muttered, "Never alone, old friend. Until the end," and the beorning followed while stuffing his pipe.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 2 </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>THE FALL OF THE ISLE OF RUSHING WATER</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The pleasant scent of the Hoardale had long been overcome and defiled, with foul winds bearing the stench of Gramsfoot across the island. Along the breadth of Tol Ascarnen's once green lawn flew torn, dark banners of crimson and black, poisonous green and white, and putrid yellow - their coat of arms cruel and vile. The tribes of Angmar stood at the fore, but those of the Misty Mountains, Isengard and Mordor, what few remained, stood with them. Though one, a torn black banner beset by a terrifying claw, and slit eye wreathed in gold script in its palm, the token of The Black Appendage of Sauron, was <em> absent </em>, and had been for the whole of the siege and many months before. </p><p>Beneath the banners of terror stood the remaining scattered legions of the enemy, their vast hordes surrounding the castle on all sides. The bridges to the east and west had fallen amidst the first hours of the grand assault, but as their siege continued over a full turn of Ithil, the fjords and land bridges became impassable, and soon the Coldfells Army had been surrounded and imprisoned in the Isle of Rushing Water, Tol Ascarnen, the mightiest fortress of the Ettenmoors. </p><p>The western halls of the castle had been ablaze for many days, its wooden roof reduced to little more than ash and charred boards as the free peoples within were denied water from the river. The western wall had given way in one section, revealing an opening, but none could enter or leave without risk of being burned in the fiery halls, or crushed by the weakened stone that continued to fall beneath the heat. The stone had turned black with ash, a foul cloud of smoke lifting always from within, and the siege engines had turned their strength to the east while cries of the desperate rang forth from the firey halls of the west.</p><p>The ruined sections of an ancient watchtower's wall near the western shores had long since been spent by the siege engines, and boulders from Isendeep before them. In their cruelty, the uruks had decided to mount the dead upon their engines and hurl them into the castle, as their munitions were long spent. In the beginning, the corpses had been stripped bare of armor, and some had been gnawed upon, but as time passed they found the armor worn by the free peoples to be of some use in weakening the castle's walls that were in disrepair. As those trapped within the castle cried in anguish at the sight of their comrades' broken bodies cruelly returned, the orcs and uruks were riled in revelry. The wargs howled, their mirth laded with mockery, and leapt upon any of the Coldfells Army who dared an escape so that they too might suffer the fate of their comrades, or worse.</p><p>Those they did not hurl into Tol Ascarnen they ate over their wide cooking fires or sold in their markets, for the Lumber Camp was always in need of strong arms and fresh backs.</p><p>During the late watches, the orc and uruk-hai soldiers who were too weak or wretched for a tribe had been sent forth to the great gates of the castle, and many had fallen across the lawn from arrows, barbs, and burning oil drained from a cauldron above the gate. A small advance guard, lead by the great black warg, had slipped into the fortress and advanced through the great hall, and from within the castle the sounds of battle and terror could be heard amidst the crackling of fire to the west.</p><p>Though the siege engines might delay, the advance guard stall, and the useless legions of the unaligned die, the flaming arrows of uruk blackarrows never ceased. Beneath the cover of night or midday, it mattered not, for their cruel volleys knew no end as they final battle of the siege unfolded.</p><p> </p><p>Within the castle, several warbands had begun to ascend the wooden stairs from the central courtyard below. The Coldfells Army had waged a bitter fight against the advance guard of Gramsfoot, but weariness and horror had overcome them, and their defeat seemed nigh.</p><p>Rastlan watched, unseen by all, as another lieutenant of the free peoples was cleaved in half, his shield arm stuck to the stone wall by a weaver's web. More uruks ascended the stairs, spurred forward by the smell of blood, and the sight of others fleeing.</p><p>Tall for a man, for the blood of Númenor had not been spent uselessly by his forebears, Rastlan was clothed in a thick cloak and cowl, both weathered and trimmed with faded gold. He rarely lifted his eyes from the shadows of his cowl for others to see, but they were grey and deep, and they alone betrayed his long years while his other features, hardened but not aged, did not. His beard was little more than stubble, for it would not grow longer, and he wore black leather armor, as faded and weathered as his cloak, a relic passed from father to son for many generations of his kin.</p><p>Though the Northern Kingdom of Arnor had fallen long before, Rastlan's family claimed lordly heritage to the sundered Kingdom of Cardolan, though they had traveled north through the wilds to settle in Glân Vraig with other rangers who owed their heritage to the fallen northern kingdoms. His grandfather had died in Arador's End, following his chieftain, but his armor was recovered by elven rangers from Imladhris and gifted to Rastlan the year he became a man, for his father had been crippled in battle and took to study as a loremaster.</p><p>He knew little else than battle and burglary, and he had become a hated foe of the forces of Angmar to the north.</p><p>Rastlan watched as the spider turned and heaved its wretched body, preparing another web to slow the free peoples who fled.</p><p>As silent as a drawstring, Rastlan leaped from the stone wall and fell towards the floor below. Malendol's sword, a gift from the elf ranger himself, pierced the carapace below the spider's head. Rastlan swept the curved blade of the eldar free, showering the wall with the weaver's green blood.</p><p>"<em> Glob </em>!" an uruk screamed while turning back 'round to face Rastlan and his fallen comrade.</p><p><em> At last, some entertainment </em>thought Rastlan, smirking as the warleader rushed forward. He pulled his other sword free, and the blade welcomed and easily turned the warleader's scimitar to the side. A moment later, the uruk's shield rose, but Rastlan had not expected it.</p><p>Wooden boards, riveted together with bands of iron, struck him hard. Rastlan felt his nose break, and his jaw shook from the strike. Unable to stop himself, he stumbled backwards towards a ledge and his peril.</p><p>Rastlan watched the shield rise a second time. Should the shield bash him again, he would surely fall to his death below.</p><p>Rastlan grinned, laden with excitement, the thrill spurred by outcome uncertain. </p><p>
  <em> At last. </em>
</p><p>Ducking, both of his swords rose. One cleaved through darkened armor and mail, separating the uruk's shield arm from his shoulder, and both the shield and severed arm fell over the ledge before them. Black blood rushed from the wound, and the next strike buried itself in the uruk's belly… and became stuck.</p><p>Rastlan was not quick enough to escape the warleader's hand on his throat. Foul breath and dark words, the Black Speech of Mordor, met him just hard as the shield had moments before. <em> "Oghor-hai u búbhosh sha pushdung," </em>spoke the uruk, the foul language shaking the stone walls behind them, and Rastlan felt his morale begin to falter beneath a vile weight that laid heavy upon his heart.</p><p>Before he could pull his sword free, Rastlan was lifted into the air and hung over the ledge by the massive warleader, strength unhindered by the elven steel in his belly or the bleeding stump of what was once his shield arm. Spit flung from the uruk's mouth, and Rastlan felt the strong grip begin to release.</p><p>
  <em> This is the end. </em>
</p><p><em> "Nazari glob!" </em> </p><p>The warleader's final words were cut short. From high upon the stairs, Rastlan watched as an arrow found its mark through the warleader's right eye. The fletching stuck outward, already tinged with black, while the uruk turned with wan reflex to look at the hunter who had slain him.</p><p>They began to fall forward.</p><p>With a twist, Rastlan flung himself back onto the ledge, hand firmly on Malendol's sword, and watched as the warleader fell to the lawn of Tol Ascarnen below.</p><p>"Were you off for a meandering stroll? I thought, though I know not why, you had fled in a desperate flight," Rastlan said, attention turning from the gore below and to the hobbit who had saved him.</p><p>She stood on the steps before Rastlan, a small bow in her hand, and wore a disgruntled scowl. "Do you know why no one likes you, Rast? Do you?" Her hair was as black as the stone of Erech, and her eyes were wide and a deep brown, darker even than the woodland bark of the Old Forest.</p><p>"You like me Meow, and you are far from no one," Rastlan replied, tone thoughtful, but another smirk betrayed his mirth. He loved to watch her ire rise. Both swords flourished between his fingers while her jaw clenched and eyebrows narrowed. </p><p>They had spent long years together in fellowship and kinship both, and had many adventures, but most were too long for telling save during a feast before a warm fire, with many courses of hearty stews, sausages, ale, and bread aplenty, as minstrels strummed song after song until the hours just before daylight. Yet, they were often at odds, and this delighted Rastlan, for he enjoyed banter as much as he enjoyed killing the enemies of the free peoples.</p><p>"It is because you take <em> nothing seriously </em> . Absolutely nothing! You could have died! There are other people we could aid! Tol Ascarnen is falling and you're standing idly by <em> playing with your swords! </em>" One of Meow's fists clenched. Down below, Quartermaster Cynwiss screamed as three orcs bound her limps and pulled.</p><p>She was not alone. All around them, the free peoples were quartered, hewn to pieces, or else suffered as the forces of Angmar breached the castle.</p><p>"Also untrue. I take my profession very seriously," Rastlan replied.</p><p>Meow descended the stairs towards him, bow still in hand. "How can you make light of what is happening around us?" Though she did not stand much higher than his waist, she seemed as formidable as any foe he had crossed blades with. And when she struck him and looked down upon their friends below, Rastlan felt a pang of guilt.</p><p>"I am not jesting. I take all of this with a grave heart," Rastlan replied, voice quiet.</p><p>
  <em> Do I? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"<em>One of the rat-folk </em>!" A cruel voice interrupted Rastlan's thoughts. Where Meow once stood, a warband of reavers in red tunics and scattered plate armor stood. They all bore crude weapons, axes and curved scimitars, the steel wet with blood.</p><p>"We have fought worse," Rastlan said softly to Meow beside them, for none of their foes looked to be of great infamy.</p><p>Behind the reavers, another came forth.</p><p>Clad in hardened plate steel painted black and white, foul and jagged script etched as designs ran across the length of the armor's cascading borders and joints. The reaver's towering helm was beset by severed heads of the free peoples on pikes to either side, and all of the enemy's servants, and much of the Coldfells Army, knew him by sight - for he was Mutalic, Bane of the West, and he strode to the warband's fore and looked across the distance to Rastlan and Meow.</p><p>Across the short distance, Rastlan heard Meow gasp, her voice a whisper among the great clamour of battle. "Is that… is that Anna?"</p><p>Above the reaver's left shoulder, a hewn head had been spitted through the neck and skull through swept blond hair. Blood coated her lips and cheeks, her hair was slick with it, and her eyes, pale from death, were rimmed with blackened crimson. </p><p>Rastlan's courage nigh faltered in the face of such terror, though he would not turn from it.</p><p>"A friend of yours, rat?" Mutalic asked after glancing at the hewn head of Meow's friend. His voice was muffled by a jagged face guard, fangs painted white across it. "She died begging for her life, on her knees." He laughed, and from behind the other reavers joined him, their snickering more akin to a horrendous cough.</p><p>Meow took a step backward, horror weakening her courage, and her bow-arm trembled. Beside them, an armored corpse, flung from the siege engines below, smashed into a wooden wall and splintered it, though the reavers took no notice in their revelry.</p><p>Rastlan shook his head, his grey eyes turning from the severed heads, Mutalic's trophies, to the warband. "Listen well, chattel. For the evil you have conceived, we will take your lives, and those you have defiled will see the cruelty you have done them returned tenfold. For we are Until the End," Rastlan crouched, "and I am Rastlan, a man of the West, and this is Meow, who has long since forgotten mercy."</p><p>"I doubt that, <em> tark</em>. Soon the heads of the galling Meow and Rastlan, the frailest Man in Middle-earth, will be mounted on my pikes," Mutalic answered with a low, callous laugh. His ashen hands gripped both axes tightly. "For though your kinship is little more than an unavailing rotten post stuck in the earth to mark a forgotten field, the great black warg will shower me in infamy and gold for trophies of your remains, and the whole of Eriador will fear the axes of Mutalic, Bane of the West!" </p><p>His weapons rose, and his narrow eyes creased with humor, "And Tol Ascarnen will be <em> ours</em>."</p><p>Down below, the great gates of Tol Ascarnen were ripped free of their hinges as burning oil fell from the cauldron above. Shouts of pain and glee became one as the banners of the enemy rushed forward, joining the advance guard who had climbed the fortress walls, or else squeezed between cracks in the defenses behind their chief scout to assail the courtyard and its steps.</p><p>Rastlan watched as the reaver prepared to charge. Beside him, Meow took aim and gathered focus, their hearts heavy with worry. Yet the thrill of battle was still within Rastlan, and it gave his sword arm strength and rallied his nerve.</p><p>"I will fight beside you, Meow," Rastlan whispered softly, one hand trembling. "Side by side."</p><p>"As will I," Meow answered. Her voice betrayed her heavy heart, but it mattered not.</p><p>
  <em> Until the end. </em>
</p><p>From a pillar, a cold wind blew. Ice and snow rushed past, and Rastlan shivered to feel the cold wind. Before he knew the gust's cause, he watched as a runestone, wreathed in ice, appeared amidst the reavers.</p><p>
  <em> "Dan in yrch danno cheleg!" </em>
</p><p>The voice rang with arcane power, and from it a gale of ice and snow surrounded the reavers. Their armor became coated in a dead cold, their limbs frozen so they could take neither step nor reach. For they were frozen with the magic of the runes, a power possessed by the eldar and dwarves who possessed great knowledge of the <em> cirth.</em> </p><p>The elf who spoke stood above them, holding two runestones girdled in ice. She leapt from her perch, a sudden cold gust sweeping beneath her, and landed before Rastlan and Meow.</p><p>Her hair, like Meow's, was black, and when the sun's light caught it there was a sheen, like moonlight upon still, dark waters. A golden pin kept her hair bound, and across the ornament were white, jeweled flowers. Her robes had a high collar, and the sleeves were stiff and tipped. The length of the fabric was decorated with <em> cirth </em> and flowing designs of white, and the remainder were a deep, pleasant brown lightly soiled by both red and black blood, and dark soil around the lowest hem. </p><p>She was one of the eldar, but more, for in her eyes gleamed the elder light of Laurelin and Telperion, their resplendence unforgotten.</p><p>"I thought I saw you fall in the western halls," Rastlan said as Meow rushed forward to meet their friend. She wrapped her arms around Saeldris, a rune-keeper and <em> randir </em> of the <em> mithlondhrim</em>, in a warm, if not short, embrace. "How did you manage to escape?"</p><p>"Ice is not all that is commanded by the runes, young <em> d<span>ú</span></em><em>n</em><em>adan.</em>" Saeldris knelt to give Meow a proper greeting. " <em> Mae govannen meril," </em>for that was her nickname for Meow.</p><p>"As adorable as this meeting is…" Rastlan slid one sword back into its sheath. "We cannot stay."</p><p>Saeldris rose and turned back around to face Rastlan. "I will not leave without Edharon, my younger kin. For he is in my charge, and our fates are entwined - for good or ill."</p><p>This answer neither Rastlan or Meow expected, and it weighed heavy on their hearts as the hordes of the enemy flooded the courtyard below them.</p><p>"Where… is he?" Meow asked.</p><p>From behind, one of the frozen reavers blocking their path to the Captain-General's Greatroom burst in a showering of ice and frozen flesh. Just beyond, a figure in leather armor of woodland make, carrying a bow wrought with gold and the grip designed as an eagle's neck and head, rushed forward.</p><p>"I could venture a guess," Rastlan said, tone wry.</p><p>"You see? You take nothing seriously, Rast," Meow chastised him.</p><p>As the figure rushed forward, pressing between the frozen reavers, his features became clear. His hair was what the elves called <em> faen </em> - white, radiant, and beautiful - long, and decorated with small braids. Atop his head rested a silver circlet, something cherished by the lords of the eldar, and his skin was pale and fair. He was clothed in a leather hauberk and fine gambeson, and his boots and leathers were also of fine make. </p><p>His eyes and brow were strange, even for his kin, as both were dark and at odds with his silvery hair and fair features. For they seemed in constant shadow, and held within a lingering sadness for what they perceived.</p><p>Edharon, for he was the hunter fleeing towards them, lifted his voice above the rabble below and war beyond, "<em> Noro vellyn! Yrch athan ven!" </em> </p><p>Behind him, Rastlan saw an entire raid chasing the hunter.</p><p>Meow took a long step back. "I thought elves were supposed to be <em> quiet! </em>" For she was accustomed to Glolas, who spoke little and enjoyed his pipe, and had rarely been trouble before departing east from the castle in the early days of the siege.</p><p>"There is no time. Rastlan, the wall!" Saeldris turned, gesturing to a section little more than rubble.</p><p>"You expect us to <em> jump!? </em>" Meow asked, tone disbelieving, for it was far taller than she, and the height from the second floor of the castle to lawn would surely break their legs.</p><p>"At least we haven't spent the day standing at the base of Lugazag hill," Rastlan said wryly. With a kick, he sundered what remained of the ruined wall and watched the stones fall far below.</p><p>Saeldris' runestones began to glow as she watched her kin rush forward. "<em>Edharon!" </em> she screamed as a reaver swung a scimitar, narrowly missing him and shattering one of those frozen only moments before.</p><p>While sprinting, reavers a breath from him, Edharon nocked an arrow wrapped tight with elven twine. He shot it past the new window in the wall, and the arrow struck true in the mortar of the ruins beneath. </p><p>Without hesitation, he buried the end of the twine in the nearby castle wall and leaped onto the suspended rope, bow above him, so that he slid its breadth well beyond the lawn and to the ruins below. </p><p>Once, the castle had been preceded by two mighty watchtowers, Ost Lôdhuin, to the east by the fjord, and Ost Angwen, before the land bridge upon the southwest beach of the isle. But both had long since become ruins, having stood proud in days past during the Arnorian Kingdom of Rhudaur, and fallen beneath the might of war brought from Angmar by the Witch-King in those days.</p><p>Meow stared, stricken, as she looked to the eastern ruin. "If you think for one <em> moment </em> that I am-" but her fear was cut short when Rastlan picked her up, threaded the twine through her bow, and shoved her down the wire in Edharon's wake. Her shout of anger and fear stretched across the Hoardale, and some claim to have heard its echoes in Glân Vraig far to the southeast.</p><p>Saeldris turned to Rastlan. "Go, <em> d</em><em>ú</em><em>nadan</em>," she spoke as a wall of wind surged around her, blocking the nearest path to keep the orcs from assailing them.</p><p>He nodded, and with a strap of leather he mounted the rope and followed. The lawn stretched out beneath him, and pikes, poles, and cruel broadswords were thrust upward as he passed over the enemy, though none managed to strike him. Suddenly, he met the ground and rolled, turning swiftly to see Saeldris descending after. She clung to a bit of her garb in one hand as she slid, and the other held firm a runestone. From it, fire circled her hand and arm, and it had lit the twine ablaze where it met the wall </p><p>Upon the castle's ledge, an orc reaver shouted through the fray, "After the man-filth and long ears!" and in their fury and haste, the orc reavers followed behind Saeldris without pause.</p><p>She fell only steps away with a thud, landing hard, but the reavers behind were caught unawares when the twine burned away, them sliding upon it, and they met their end on the pikes, poles, and swords of the legions below them, their own kind bringing their bloody ends in error.</p><p><em> Today </em> thought Rastlan, <em> our renown will climb higher than the tallest peaks of the Misty Mountains. </em></p><p>Leaning forward, he grabbed the arms and hands of his fellowship and drew them away, past the ancient stone reliefs of Númenorean stars, shields, rods, and thrones of what remained of Ost Lôdhuin, through the eastern ruins and from the eyes and enmity of their foes.</p><p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 3 </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>THE TWO TYRANTS</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>"Put the prisoner on his knees!" brayed Tyrant Trintrû above the wailing of prisoners and laughing scorn of the orcs who were about him.</p><p>Tol Ascarnen was overrun. In the western halls, fires continued to burn, though prisoners had already been put to the task of hauling water from the Hoarwell to temper the flames. A warband was set to the task of quickening the pace of the thralls, and their lashes beat cruelly against the line of free peoples who hauled water back and forth to end the fires.</p><p>The many banners of Gramsfoot and its allies had left the lawn of Tol Ascarnen, leaving brown grass and deep tracks in the mud that marred the land beyond the beaches. The forces of darkness had descended upon the castle, and they reaped all of her rewards - from supplies to weapons and treasure, the servants of Angmar looted all they could find, and their cruelty upon their captives knew few limits. Above the isle, an unnatural darkness had settled, and the air was foul with rot and filth, and the screams from tormented prisoners who hung from gibbets or had been flayed and left to bleed with no mercy.</p><p>Without warning, packs of wargs would descend upon the work line of prisoners and claim a small number with their claws. They had been forbade from attacking the lieutenants and first marshals in the chambers above, and they feared the wrath of the tyrant while the great black warg was not among them. The cries of those who fell to their claws and were mutilated upon the lawn were even louder than the crackling fires and rapids of the river.</p><p>Tyrant Trintrû stood far away from the work line, atop Tol Ascarnen in the Captain-General's greatroom. Clad in the crude iron armor of the uruk-hai, and bearing a broad shield, his presence went scarcely unnoticed on the battlefield. Dozens of rotten ears and toes hung from his belt, and his eyes burned with red malice. </p><p>Before him was Captain General Mákan, a balding dwarf with a long beard, clad in mail and a long hauberk. His weapons had been stripped from him, and his bannermen were held hostage in the corners of the room.</p><p>After the tyrant's command, Mákan was thrust onto his knees with a kick and shove, though it took three uruks to restrain him, for the strength of Durin's folk was not easily lost, though the siege had been long.</p><p>"You and this rabble will not hold the fortress for long," spoke the dwarf. "Release me and my first marshals, and though you have caused my castle great harm, and brought great suffering to those in my charge, I will negotiate the terms of your surrender ere the coming of retribution."</p><p>Tyrant Trintrû looked down upon his captive and sneered. Red eyes alive as if on fire, he said in a low voice, "A tempting offer, longbeard. Yet I've come to cut your neck to ribbons and hang you from the ramparts... but I might spare your hides for ransom." </p><p>As the tyrant strode forward, a barrel of oil burst at his feet and splashed the metal bindings of his boots and dark, plate armor.</p><p>"You <em> glob! </em>" Trintrû swore while turning to face an uruk blackarrow. </p><p>She was not as tall as he, but her lower fangs were long, and both arms were exposed beneath a chestplate with cruel spikes atop the shoulder pauldrons. Her hair was braided, long, and slick with blood and vile oil.</p><p>"The cooking sauce goes to Soldier Glot, down in the-" continued the tyrant, but his instructions were halted by what he saw. For the blackarrow had drawn her massive bow, and held upon the string was a flaming arrow. With the immense strength her kin possessed, the shaft was released, swift and sure, and the smoldering arrowhead punctured the broken barrel.</p><p>She snarled with delight at what would follow.</p><p>Fire and blood sprayed forth from whence the shaft met the barrel, and the Captain-General's greatroom shook with the force of the blast. Black smoke rose from the fire that leaped from the broken barrel and oil, and all saw that Tyrant Trintrû was no more than a few spare pieces of armor and smoldering meat. Soon after his blood rained down upon them in an unexpected, dark shower. </p><p>Beside the flames, Mákan shoved himself out of the way in horror, the shock of such betrayal one he did not foresee. The tyrant's helm spun furiously to the dwarf's side, and within it was what remained of his rival, and all gathered, save the free peoples, howled with laughter. For it seemed to the hosts of Angmar that the dwarf had been tarred, and many began to strut like field birds and make chirping noises in cruel jest.</p><p>"Listen, worms!" yelled the blackarrow over the rabble as the dead tyrant smoldered mere feet away. "My name is Nazukât, and I'm the new Tyrant of Tol Ascarnen! You lot do as I say, or more heads will roll." </p><p>Behind her, a large warleader strode forward, and he was flanked by several more uruks and orc reavers bearing Nazukât's sigil and banner. "The tarks will be returning! Already, scouts are sayin' there's an army over the east bridge, camped at the crossroads."</p><p>Across Tol Ascarnen, many orcs and uruks climbed the stairs of the ancient castle to witness the new spectacle of malice, for word traveled quickly the tyrant had met his end suddenly, and many others took heed besides - wargs, weavers, and those few goblins who had weaseled their way into the ranks of Gramsfoot abandoned their tasks to join the throng.</p><p>"If you maggots want to keep your hides," spoke Nazukât, her voice ringing through the stone walls atop the rabble, "we stand together and hold this rock, and any who does different answers to Nazukât."</p><p>As hundreds began to gather, their slitted eyes fixed upon the uruk-hai who had slain their tyrant, many wargs emerged from the shadows throughout the keep. Among them was one with slick, black fur, far larger than his gathered kin, his eyes as red as sunset. He strode forth, coat bristling, and all of his kind bent before him. For he was the great black warg, and his foul race had not seen his strength since the passing of his fell cousin, whose fur was white instead of black, and many said there was a contest between them, whence only one had strode away the victor.</p><p>Snarling, the greatest of wargs did not waste words: "<em> Trintrû swore we wouldst receive flesh. And war. </em>" Spoken in the ancient and broken language of their race, a mixture of snarls and horrible clamor, most still knew the great black warg's meaning. </p><p>He began to prowl across the greatroom, and all avoided him, as they feared his sudden wrath and hunger, and fickle mood. "<em> And unto me, a bounty for slipping through tark defenses to open the gates. Who art thou, then, who wouldst take our tyrant's position, and keep his oaths? For we </em> ," all around him, his brethren snarled and snapped their jaws, " <em> desire what is owed. </em>"</p><p>Behind the lord of wargs, many others crept to his flank, eyes gleaming, for they longed for what had been promised them.</p><p>"I am the doom of Tol Ascarnen, Scourge of the Fair Folk. I am Nazukât, and beneath my banner there will be more than bounty and war! We will claim the land from the mighty peaks of the north to the Last Bridge, and the filth who stand against us will be left in ruin or chains." She leaned forward, cruel gaze turning upon Mákan, "For we will ransom Tol Ascarnen and its prisoners, and from the bounty claim a new home, free from the terrors of Angmar."</p><p>Around the greatroom, the horde of orcs and uruks wailed with delight, and their foul curses echoed throughout the chamber, halls, and courtyard beneath. Wargs howled their contentment, yet in their hunger turned towards those prisoners who remained bound in the corners. For the forces from Gramsfoot longed to be free of the terrors of the north, whence they were enthralled by evil men and powers which did not rest.</p><p>Mákan crept slowly away and stood. "A wise course," he shouted amidst the roaring throng. "You will look back on this day, all of you, as a day of great relief and celebration... For though your crimes are great, there is land enough for our peoples to find peace in this new world." </p><p>But the words of the old dwarf were cut short by a snap of mighty jaws that pierced his mail and threw him to the wooden floorboards below. Stricken so, he looked down to see his own blood spilling from his bowels, the great black warg atop him.</p><p>"<em> Eat your fill </em>," the lord of wargs snarled loudly, calling above the chorus and foul screams, maw drenched in dwarven blood.</p><p>The room grew still, save for those who retreated slowly from both the tyrant and warg, and their retinues - for they readied for conflict. A hush followed amidst the throng of Gramsfoot, and Mákan's cries of terror and pain echoed through the ramparts. </p><p>Nazukât drew forth her bow and took aim for the warg. "You <em> glob! </em> We need him to parlay with the <em> tarks!" </em></p><p>"<em> Thy conceived surrender is at its end," </em> the great black warg answered with a snarl. " <em> For surrender is folly, and ransom a fool's game. There is naught to bargain with the free peoples, their hearts know only retribution." </em> </p><p>All gathered saw then the great wounds of the wargs, for their kind was hunted across Middle-earth, and they had not known peace, or freedom, and would never lend trust to those who had slain them for long ages passed.</p><p>Before Nazukât could protest, the great black warg added, "<em> Thus </em> , <em> this dwarf I name as my bounty, to remind thee of our everlasting enmity, and shouldst thou disagree… know the Dread comes, and she shalt allow me name any prize." </em></p><p>The threat struck Nazukât, and she knew great fear in the face of the snarling warg, both for the coming Dread… and for what the warg might name as his prize should she deny him. And so she turned to the ailing dwarf, who yet might be saved and aid in their ransom, or else left to die.</p><p>Turning, Nazukât answered, at last, "Have your prize, then, and be your price fulfilled."</p><p>Across the greatroom, cheers resumed as the horde of Gramsfoot looked on with relief, for neither retinue desired to battle the other. Yet the first-marshals of Mákan watched in anguish, and the Captain General grew hot with rage.</p><p>"<em> Imrid amrâd ursul </em> ," M á kan shouted, and his curse was heard by many, for his strength was not spent, and his fury was forged from long years of war. " <em> Baruk Khazâd ai-mênu!" </em>He cried, and with the endurance of stone he withstood the terrible mauling and stood to his full height, throwing aside the uruks who thought to hold him. </p><p>His armored fist shattered the jaw and fangs of the first warg who leaped forth, and he sundered another's back just as easily as a pack tried to waylay him. Though outnumbered, none could wrestle him back to the floor while his strength lasted, and several more lost their lives in the contest.</p><p>Yet his endurance waned, and even he was no equal to the great black warg. From behind, the wretched beast pounced upon Mákan, toppling him to his knees, and bit him upon the shoulder. His fangs sunk through mail and gambeson, and a torrent of blood spewed from the dwarf's neck as he was waved about as a banner caught in a swift breeze. Dozens more descended upon the prize of the lord of wargs, and they tore flesh and bone while dwarf blood quenched their thirst.</p><p>From behind Nazukât, a large warleader approached. "We have taken hold of the castle, lord. Your servants listen for your command, ready to crack the whip."</p><p>Nazukât watched as orc reavers strode forward to the screaming dwarf. One of his arms had been torn free, but the other reached towards First-Marshal Dembent, whose throat had been cut by her captor. She stared, eyes wide, while crumpling forward into a pool of red while orcs jeered beside her.</p><p>"Find the most clever orcs, those best with stone and mortar. Bid them fortify the walls with the stone we threw into the castle." Fierce anger rose in her as she conceived new plans for the castle, and, for at least a time, tried not to think of the coming Dread.</p><p>Nazukât turned to the warleader. "When they have had their fill, set the hounds to track the fellowship who fled east, and bring them to me. Alive, torn apart, dead, it makes no difference," she sneered, "though I would take great pleasure in seeing Saeldris into the gibbet myself."</p><p>"And the prisoners, lord?" asked the warleader, head bowing slightly.</p><p>Before them, a reaver pressed his jagged scimitar to the face of Mákan while wargs tore at his ribs and legs. The cruel blade shaved more than hair, raking through his flesh, until his beard could be torn free from his jaw, chin, and cheeks. The reaver held it aloft, dripping with blood and skin, and roared his triumph at claiming the trophy. But another, one of his kin, soon grappled for the dwarf beard, and they fought as Mákan watched from beneath, eyes closing slowly in horror while he was torn to pieces.</p><p>And so passed Captain-General Mákan.</p><p>"Bind them in iron," for while once she had planned to ransom the prisoners for gold and land, there seemed no need, now, "and send half to the Lumber Camp. Those maggots at the mine can have their slaves when they deliver what is owed. Better they learn the sting of work with their own backs!"</p><p>The warleader grunted with annoyance, turned and began to depart, but Nazukât grabbed his arm. Between them was a challenge, yet she won the victory, and the warleader merely snarled. "Though it is not as we planned, we will not come to rue this day. This rabble must soon be put to task. Remember, the Dread is coming. Tol Ascarnen cannot sit idle, or we will share the fate of that <em> gazat </em>," she pointed to the slab of meat that was once Mákan, and the band of orcs who still fought over the dwarf beard as wargs licked their maws clean.</p><p>"We will not fail you…" the warleader answered, "<em> Thrakatul Nazukûl!" </em></p><p>Throughout the greatroom and ramparts, through the halls and courtyard, and from the lawn, the Army of Gramsfoot took up the call in salute to their new tyrant. </p><p>"<em> Thrakatul Nazukûl! Thrakatul Nazukûl! </em>" they cheered, and until that day's end they worked and feasted as hard as any had fought. Yet all the while, the call was heard, and it gave them speed of purpose.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>"THRAKATUL NAZUKÛL!"</em> </b>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 4 </em>
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  <strong>THE CAPTAIN'S OATH</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Covered in ice, the ancient stone bridge of Arador's End crossed the breadth between two peaks laden with snow. Made by the exiles of Númenor who ventured to the northern reaches of the Hithaeglir in the second age, the markings that had once proudly adorned it, and the slabs' smooth surfaces, had since faded to jagged, weathered stone, and much of its foundation had eroded or else been broken by storms. Long neglected, not even the <em> randir </em> of the elves, nor dwarven wanderers from Ered Luin or the exiles of their people, had put their tools to the task of repairing the once beautiful craftsmanship. For few had the skill to do so, and fewer still cared to weather the frozen peaks for longer than they must.</p><p>Atop the bridge stood Samulson, beard and cloak caught in a gale that chilled him to the bone and slowed his march to a crawl. He had long since abandoned carrying either shield or spear by hand, for fear of the cold had become greater than fear of an enemy. Before him was a snowdrift, though the length of it was being fjorded by Falcon whose brawny limbs seemed far less troubled by either the wind or snow.</p><p>To the north, the frozen peaks of Arador's End were not easily seen in the storm. Ice and snow kept the distant mountains from view, though an ice drake, blue and broad, could occasionally be seen circling the snowy valley below, and its roars were carried across the mountain winds. </p><p>Beneath them was the frozen river, where they had once been mere hours before. The howl of the wind through the throat of Arador's End reminded Samulson of an old tale of a chieftain of the <em> dúnedain, </em> one told by Rastlan one evening by campfire light. They had shared a pipe in a campsite north of Tírith Rhaw, and Lucibell had played her flute during the telling. The story had been heavy on his heart, for the chieftain had not seen his son wed, nor his grandchild born, and without his council the northernmost lands of the Men of the West had fallen further into ruin. A sad tale, as most were in those lands.</p><p>His people shared similar tales of a warden who had abandoned them, and he wondered if the two men were not the same.</p><p>"I have not been this way in months!" boomed the voice of Falcon before him. His hair and cloak were coated with snow, and his long, thick beard, longer even than Sam's, looked as though it were truly white. Samulson was freezing, but his friend smiled - and he was glad for it. The thought of the chieftain's death, though he was not of his own folk, brought always a burden on his heart, and the northern winds did little to lift his spirits.</p><p>"Not since the fall of the Black Lands," he called back, but his voice was all but lost in the winds. "We thought Angmar's tyranny ended, but it was merely renewed." </p><p>Together, they trudged on, cresting the middle of the bridge. Ahead, Samulson could see the faint outline of the outpost, its stone walls and buttresses burdened by more large snow drifts.</p><p>"Naught will draw him from Arador's End, you know," Falcon called back. "Not the tribes of Angmar or their legions, not even our kinship. He has chosen the paths of exile, that much is clear." </p><p>Falcon gestured before them, to the outpost across the bridge and through the storm, "For who would willingly choose such a dwelling, if not to turn all but the most foolish of visitors away!" The big man howled with laughter after, as if in challenge to the mountain's breath.</p><p>Samulson smiled, but it did not keep his frozen feet from venturing forth. Step after step, breath after breath, his forced march continued.</p><p> </p><p>To either side of the adventurers, the great stone pillars of the bridge rose high, and their edges were rimmed with a thick layer of ice and snow. On the topmost tier, Sam beheld a relief of Elendilmir, the Star of the North Kingdom, or what remained of it. It was said the relic befell a dark fate and had been lost long ago when a great king of men had been slain, though Samulson had seen its likeness from afar, peering through a great gathering of nobles atop Minas Tirith, on the brow of the man they called Elessar. </p><p>Haslor had strode with few others in Elessar's van when he came to the Tower of Ecthelion atop Minas Tirith. The great mable doors had opened, and the lords of that land had strode forward into the ancient halls where the statues of kings, grim faced and wise, presided over all who walked the long hall to its end. And there, shimmering white and without flaw, was the swan throne of the King of Gondor. Samulson was not an envious man, but he had felt so then, seeing his friend, with whom he had fought beside year after long year, held in a place of honor so high, whilst he was regarded so low.</p><p>And now, his friend had surrendered all to live in exile, within the land of his broken forebears, far away from the beauty of the White City, and all the wonder and wealth he might have had there. Samulson felt foolish to think of his envy, and the cold seemed a mercy compared to the knowledge that he would never be worthy to be named among Elessar's van.</p><p>Something <em> moved </em>atop the bridge's pillar.</p><p>Black as night, and torn, a cloak rustled in the frozen winds above. Samulson drew his spear and shield, and his voice called out, "Come forth, bridgeman, and speak! Or learn the taste of steel."</p><p>Atop the pillar, a figure clothed in torn, black garb stepped forward. If he wore armor, it was covered by furs as thick as those worn by the Lossoth. Most of his face was covered by dark wool as well, and his skin and eyes were both light brown. Across his belt were many knives, each as wicked as the last. "Falcon of the Beornings," the stranger's voice was quiet amidst the wind, "and Samulson, Warden of Breeland. Were I a spy of the enemy, I might have slit your throats and won great infamy with your frozen heads."</p><p>"Tell us your name, villain, or else feel the wrath of those you seem to know so well!" Falcon smiled, and Samulson, despite the chill, allowed himself a grin. </p><p>"At first I thought perhaps Glolas, though he is far too short. And does not hide half as well." They both laughed, but Samulson soon continued, "How have you fared, Mack?"</p><p>"Bah!" replied Mack the Knife. With a leap, he slid down the length of the bridge's pillar with both his hands and feet gripping against the ice to slow his fall. When his feet struck the snow, he did not fall through it, but instead strode atop the bank,  as an elf might.</p><p>Noticing Mack the Knife's deftness, Falcon added, "Perhaps a new title should be bestowed upon you: Mack the Snow-Hare!"</p><p>Despite standing well above them in the snow, Mack the Knife was not very tall. He clasped Falcon's massive hand and forearm first, and yet still did not stand at his shoulder. "A trick I learned in the cold months since my travels here. Not all can wade through snow as easily as you, old goat, or march as swift as the wardens!" He turned to Samulson next and clasped his arm, then drew him into an embrace. "It has been an age, Sam."</p><p>Samulson clapped the burglar on the back and held him close. "How have you been?" he asked.</p><p>"Cold."</p><p>Samulson and Falcon both laughed again, and Mack drew back to look upon them both, holding their shoulders.</p><p>"I have been well, though my knives have grown idle. Goblins provide poor sport, and they all seem to have fled the village of Grothum to the east, in the shadow of the Isendeep."</p><p>"Perhaps return to Glân Vraig, old friend." Samulson clasped Mack the Knife's shoulder in return. "They have need of a skilled dagger, and the lands are much warmer besides."</p><p>Mack shook his head and chuckled, and Samulson saw the mirth reach the burglar's eyes. "My path turned from there long ago. Ah…" he smirked, "I think I have discerned your purpose. Come then, there is an easier path to Arador's End Outpost. The captain waits inside."</p><p>"As polite as ever?" Falcon asked, moving to follow. His foot soon found stones, hidden in the snow, upon which they could climb and walk without the burden of the snow drifts. Some craftmanship kept them from becoming slick with ice and snow, and he felt sure of foot upon them. Samulson wondered if they had been there all along.</p><p>"Aye, though the chill still hinders his knee." Mack the Knife helped them atop the stones, one by one, before leading the way forward. "Yet, you should be warned…"</p><p>"Oh?" spoke Samulson and Falcon as one.</p><p>"No matter what is said,'' Mack the Knife began, "no matter the hunger in your belly, or the weakness of your limbs... do not try Haslor's rolls. They say my knife is hard, cold, and cruel… it is naught compared to his baking."</p><p>Behind the burglar, both Samulson and Falcon roared with laughter. Yet in truth, though he was spoiled often by Lucibell's thick stews, roasts, and bread, he would be tempted even by the salted cod of the Haradhrim after such a climb.</p><p>The companions walked on, to the west, as the winds howled and the drake's roar echoed across the mountain's valleys far beneath, and the snow blew in great sheets across the range.</p><p> </p><p>Inside the outpost, Samulson knew a warmth he had forgotten along his march. The walls were made of stone, but much was covered in old tapestries, their fables and designs faded and marked with soot. Several old maps in wooden frames had been hung, and an old painting of Weathertop, the oils cracked and darkened, hung crooked on the wall. Opposite the thick, wooden door was a large hearth, beset by gray slabs of stone on the floor, with a fire ablaze within it. Beside the fire was space for nearly a whole cord of timber, much of it already spent. A mix of fir, lebethron, and oak, the bark was still marked by moss and the occasional mushroom. He wondered from whence the wood had come, as Arador's End had no wealth of timber. Only stone.</p><p>"It is said breakfast is the most important meal of the day, lest you make company with hobbits," spoke Haslor, who stood beside the fire. He was a tall man, much taller than most, but neither as tall or broad as Falcon, for few men were. His hair was raven black, but several strands of grey ran through it, and his stubble was nearly white across his chin. To look at him was to see a man no older than fifty years, but Haslor had once told Samulson that he was seventy-two, and that was many years ago when he had first marched to Gondor.</p><p>Samulson had not believed him.</p><p>Haslor's long sable tunic fell to his knees, and a simple belt held both it and dark woolen pants in place. He seemed always to favor his left leg, and there was a hitch with each stride as he moved between hearth and table.</p><p>Within the hearth hung a great, black pot of stew that simmered. Nearby was an iron oven, its lid closed, with coals set beneath it. Beyond the hearth, the floor was made of wood, the planks recently worked and polished to reveal a slight sheen. The hides and heads of frenzied fell-maws blanketed the floors, their white fur a welcome warmth to Samulson's frozen feet, and several more accompanied woolen blankets across simple hand-carved chairs.</p><p>"For them," continued Haslor, "it is second breakfast, whereas the first is merely meant to rouse them and lend enough strength to make the next." </p><p>Nearby, Mack the Knife hung their cloaks and beat their boots free of snow. "Aye. A tradition he's grown proudly fond of, as it is to his liking, and a truth supported with ample evidence." He gently patted his own stomach as his cheeks puffed outward.</p><p>Haslor glared across the room at his friend, but the full weight of his gaze was not upon him, and he smiled slightly at the jest. He had kind eyes, but his voice was low and sad, weary, as if burdened by unseen toil and heartbreak.</p><p>Samulson laughed softly. "We could all grow accustomed to more meals, especially if they are taken with friends." He turned to look around the room, and he could not help but smile at the old painting of Amon-Sûl, the ancient watchtower of Rastlan and Haslor's kin. "Though they are small and most of them simple folk, their skill in the kitchen and appetites seem to know no equal."</p><p>"Well said," replied Haslor while gripping a large, wooden pitcher that rested upon a keg of dark wood and darker metal bands.</p><p>"Mmm," grunted Falcon, trying to hide both his guilt, thirst, and hunger. "The feasts of the woodland-realm are a greater sight. Roasted venison, smoked pork that falls from the bone, a wealth of salads, the leaves a beautiful blue, and radish slices the size of my fist! I daresay their bread is as good as ours, though the marmalade," his stomach growled loudly, "is as rich as cream. And their wine is without equal." </p><p>He felt Samulson jab his ribs and give him a rather pointed look. </p><p>"Oh. Hm." Falcon cleared his throat loudly, "But hobbits are - yes. A good folk."</p><p>Haslor seemed not to notice the listed expectations of his largest guest while filling their ale horns. The beer was fit for a banquet, of much finer quality than the swill Samulson had enjoyed as alad. A beautiful foam head rolled over the side.</p><p>"Hoarhollow ale," Samulson whispered. It had been months since he had tasted it.</p><p>"Aye," said Haslor. "Have your fill, the two of you. I will see about the stew and rolls." He turned back to the fire.</p><p>Beside Samulson, Falcon tilted his horn and began to guzzle the deep, amber liquid. Streams of it trickled through his mustache and beard, and it was soon gone.</p><p>Nailed into the east wall was a narrow and exposed stair made of old wood, far older than the floor. As Samulson sipped his ale, he saw that there were two wooden beds of simple craftsmanship and several trunks. Surrounding the beds were ancient bookshelves, all laden with tomes, scrolls, and loose pages of parchment. A second, but smaller, stair lead to a hatch in the ceiling above - the ramparts of the outpost.</p><p>With a large metal ladle, Haslor scooped stew from the black pot into wooden bowls. Sam felt his stomach rumble, and beside him Falcon's all but shook the map table before them as he poured himself another ale.</p><p>Carved from a mallorn trunk and limbs in the style of the <em> galadhrim </em>, the table had been partially cleared, and the maps had been drawn together and moved upstairs, though the ale horns and candles had been left as they were.</p><p>"Almost finished," Haslor said softly in a gentle voice. He spoke as if calming an irritated stallion.</p><p>"I've little patience left," Falcon admitted. "Hurry, or I'm as likely to guzzle your stew from the cauldron as I am to wait!" </p><p>Between them, the men laughed, but Falcon scowled and rubbed his stomach, and his guilt for accepting food from a host they meant to trouble did him little good.</p><p>In a corner of the bottom floor stood a rack, and upon it was a suit of ancient armor of the finest craftsmanship of Men. The breastplate was solid to the ribs, whence it became scaled, and decorated with raised, white ships, stars, and other swirling designs. The pauldrons were not overly broad and bulky as Samulson was accustomed, but rather slim and flourishing. Beneath the breastplate was a plated skirt of similar make, and beneath them both was a mail shirt and black gambeson. </p><p>The helm was tall and slim, and to either side rose curved swan wings, white and shimmering, that nearly met atop the crest of the helm. Upon the pauldrons were silver stars, and bound to them was a cloak of royal blue, and the white tree of Gondor had been embroidered upon it. </p><p>Haslor served them all large bowls of stew, steaming and thick, though the sight of it nearly turned Samulson's stomach. He poked at a fatty piece of blue meat. Beside him, Falcon picked up the bowl and began to drink from it, slurping the broth and fare down with haste. </p><p>"It's drake flank and belly, onion, potato, carrots, and apple," said Haslor while patting Samulson's shoulder. "Try it." </p><p>Samulson closed his eyes and did so, and he found it both hearty and savoury, with a slight twinge of sweetness upon the tip of his tongue after every other bite. </p><p>"I call it Isen stew, on account of the frost-drakes making their home in the mines to the north," Haslor smiled as Sam began to eat quickly, his stomach reminding him of the hard march from Glân Vraig. </p><p>"And here, an <em> ithilharn </em>roll," Haslor set down what was nearly half a loaf beside him, but saw that Falcon had already devoured his - all that remained were crumbs in his beard. His people were renowned for their honey bread, and they were known to eat great quantities of it.</p><p>"More," said the beorning, mouth stuffed.</p><p>Haslor and Mack the Knife laughed quietly as Falcon wiped his beard and lips with the back of his forearm, smearing broth and crumbs free.</p><p>"I think I have convinced another doubter, Mack. The Shire's cuisine is as I said: it has no equal." Haslor carved free another roll, for as they had baked the rolls stuck to one another while rising. "Eat your fill, Falcon. The flour is from Hoarhollow, and there is plenty of it." His hand patted the beorning's shoulder. </p><p>"Aye… from a year ago…" Mack the Knife whispered while ladling more soup into the cavernous wooden bowl.</p><p>Haslor glared at him once more.</p><p>Resting against the ancient armor was a mithril halberd inlaid with gold, its front blade gleaming and sharp, curved and as white as a blazing star, and the length of it was decorated with <em> tengwar </em> script that Samulson could not read. The pike ended in a sharp point, and the back blade was half the length as the front, yet akin in shape to the fore blade, and likewise decorated with an ancient scrawl. The two grips along the pole were marked by smooth metal that was akin to woven blue fabric, and between them was a white gem that seemed set ablaze, no matter the hour. The weapon was without blemish. </p><p>Though Haslor's armor was old and of fine quality, it did not compare to the halberd. Its name was Númenverist, and though it had a fabled history with men hailing from the west, its craftsmanship was far greater and more ancient. Samulson had never seen a weapon its equal, either in beauty or on the battlefield - it was a relic of a time long past, made by hands whose skill had faded long ago from Eriador, if indeed that was where it had been forged.</p><p>"It is delicious," admitted Samulson while dunking the roll into the stew.</p><p>"He says so only because he was starved," Mack the Knife chided as he sat down and joined them.</p><p>Samulson shook his head. "No. It is good. And we thank you both for your hospitality-"</p><p>"Such as it is in the frozen nethers of the world," Mack the Knife chided again, which made Falcon laugh loudly.</p><p>"His tongue is as quick as his knives! Perhaps our visit was not for naught, as they say," Falcon bellowed before guzzling what remained of his second horn, "from… somewhere. Hm."</p><p>Samulson scowled, as he did not want to reveal the purpose for visiting over breakfast, be it second or first.</p><p>Haslor refilled the beorning's horn while smiling. "I believe it is the dwarves."</p><p>Falcon grunted. "A wretched people. Little better than goblins, I say. Let them mine unto their ruin, for that is what lies in the darkness!"</p><p>Samulson cleared his throat rather loudly, remembering why he had determined to travel alone to visit the captain in exile. "As I said, thank you for your hospitality, both of you. It has been too long."</p><p>At last, Haslor joined them with bowl and loaf, but said nothing more of dwarves, awoken darkness, or the ire between Durin's folk and the sons and daughters of Beorn. His kindness was rivaled only by his wisdom, traits Samulson both admired. </p><p>"Aye, too long. And if nothing else," Haslor had a bite of bread and smiled wide, chuckling as he said the last, "they are better than Dale-men's cram."</p><p>All at the table laughed, though Mack the Knife, while chuckling, added, "Barely."</p><p>Haslor ignored him. "Do you all recall those?" he asked through laughter, "I can scarce forget the taste of powdery crumbs upon my tongue."</p><p>"Aye. From those accursed hobbit presents!" Falcon blurted, face red with mirth. The table shook while he slammed his palm against it and howled with laughter. "I think it likely they found them as bad as we - and so decided to gift them to the unsuspecting as they horded the most useful and delicious provisions in their larders." He reached for his third, massive roll.</p><p>"Hm, I think you are right, master beorning," said Mack the Knife. "I once burgled a pair of fine mathom-hunter's armor from their stores. I still have them, but never hence have I received an item of worth from their gifts." </p><p>Haslor sipped from his soup, trying not to laugh. He could not resistt the opportunity to repay his friend's… satire. </p><p>"Oh? I've received fifty mithril coins on several occasions, a crystal of remembrance, and even a worn symbol of the elder king." </p><p>Mack the Knife choked, and Samulson and Falcon chuckled as their host got one over on the burglar. </p><p>"Though how hobbits acquired such items of immense value I can never be certain, they are not a people of great wealth, and seldom trade with outsiders apart from their pipe weed. And carrots."</p><p>Those at the table laughed again, and Samulson felt the ale working its magic on his disposition.</p><p>"They mean well, even if they are a people who seem far behind the times," Haslor said quietly, patting Mack the Knife on the back to help with his surprised cough.</p><p>"Aye. Jili especially," Falcon grunted.</p><p>Mack the Knife chuckled and almost snorted beer while Samulson struck the beorning on the arm. There was a long feud between those two, including a wager that involved a vast quantity of scrolls.</p><p>"When last we spoke," Haslor said, smiling slightly at the beorning's chide, "she was not well suited to retirement. Wat Mudbottom had gone grey from her suggestions and adjustment to defenses. 'Incessant fiddling,' he called it."</p><p>"Incessant chatter, more like," Falcon chuckled before draining the rest of his fifth ale. He reached for more.</p><p>"I think you have had enough," Samulson said before removing the wooden pitcher, much to Falcon's discontent.</p><p>Mack the Knife winked at Falcon and, while Samulson was not looking, emptied the contents of an iron flask into his ale horn.</p><p>Haslor saw, but made no comment. Taking the ale pitcher, he filled each horn to half, for the final time, and said, "I think it time for a toast. To hobbits! Their cuisine, hoarding, and friendship. To-"</p><p>"Jilibean," Mack the Knife interrupted, smiling, as he pulled free another flask of the same make and dribbled several drops into each horn. Even Falcon's, though his already had plenty, much to the beorning's delight.</p><p>"To Jili, may she take up her bow and traps once more, and leave the poor mayor in peace," Haslor smiled and tipped his ale forward towards the others. "And to friends, and Until the End!"</p><p>"Until the End!" cheered the others as foam rolled down their horns and sloshed onto the table beneath. Each drank deep from their horns, and the taste of harder swill burned down their throats.</p><p> </p><p>The friends ate their meal, talking and laughing, and the weight of Samulson's worry soon left him. Haslor had skill with putting people at ease, even men of Dunland, like Mack the Knife, who were quick to show their temper, and were notoriously wary. He was also skilled with discerning another's purpose, and he had little trouble learning Samulson's and Falcon's, though they never spoke of it. </p><p>As early morning gave way to late morning, and horns of ale and bowls were refilled, the friends talked of their kinship, Haslor and Mack the Knife's time in the mountains, and how great an effort it was to restore the outpost. For when they had come to it, merrevail from the Delving of Frór patrolled its walls, and a wood troll had taken quarters on the ramparts.</p><p>Though Samulson had taken the ale pitcher from Falcon, his horn had been refilled four times more, and he ate more than his fill of isen stew and <em> ithilharn </em>rolls. Though true to his word, Haslor fed them all with little complaint, and before midday they had withdrawn from the table to enjoy the fire and their pipes. The room filled with pipe smoke, and Samulson had entertained them for some time with smoke rings, a skill he learned in his youth when he still lived in the Bree-lands.</p><p>At long last, at conversation's end, the room fell to silence. Samulson turned his blue eyes to the fire and combed back a strand of long, slicked hair behind his ear. He felt his eyes begin to close, and he remembered that he was weary after his march.</p><p>"Samulson," the voice roused him slowly. "As you have not removed your armor, and your eyes turn often to your spear and the door, I cannot help but think you do not intend to stay long." Haslor lowered his pipe and threw another log into the hearth, sending sparks and warmth free.</p><p>"Hm. Yes, I - apologize. This is not journey's end, though I would welcome it," Samulson replied. </p><p>Beside him, Falcon leaned over and patted his shoulder with a large hand. "I think we would soon put an end to Haslor's cellar."</p><p>Haslor raised his hand and smiled. "Think nothing of it, old friends. Why don't we," he threw another log onto the fire and sighed, "discuss why it is you have come so far, across valleys, plains, snow and mountains, near to the borders of toppled Angmar?"</p><p>Samulson cleared his throat, and renewed focus drove his weariness away. "Tol Ascarnen is under siege, and it has been for the full length of Ithil's turn. The forces within will soon be without food, if they are not since our departure north."</p><p>Haslor's grey eyes turned back to the fire, and the gentle smile on his expression gave way as leaves from tree limbs in autumn.</p><p>"The uruks have taken those captured, or who attempted to flee, to their markets, or else flung them into the castle, broken and flayed, to be mourned by their kin and brethren," Samulson continued. "It is no mere siege. The horrors of it have not been known in Eriador since…"</p><p>"The rise of the Witch-king," Falcon provided. </p><p>The room grew still and quiet, save for the occasional flip of one of Mack the Knife's daggers through his fingers. Haslor did not turn away from the flames while rubbing a calloused finger beneath his lips. To Samulson, the seasoned veteran, strong and kind, transformed before him. Haslor seemed much older, like one of the Kings of Gondor who stood within the Tower of Ecthelion - contemplative, eyes filled with judgment, and a sternness he had known long ago upon distant fields of battle...</p><p>And doom.</p><p>"There is an army of Free Peoples, a gathering of several kinships and those regiments of the Coldfells Army who could be spared, waiting near the crossroads. By the old elf camp," Samulson continued. "They plan to march upon Tol Ascarnen in the morning, from the east, and assault the ruins from Ost Lôdhuin. But they have no great leader, no captain, to spur them to victory. It was my hope you would make haste and return with me, and we might join with them in the counter-assault."</p><p>"You need not have come all this way to know my answer." Haslor's hand lowered, and he inhaled deeply. "No."</p><p>Samulson looked to Falcon, and then his troubled gaze returned to the captain. He leaned forward, eyebrows rising. "Perhaps I did not explain well enough. The foes from Gramsfoot have united as never before, even when the Enemy still reigned. They have surrounded the island for a full turn of Ithil." He gestured openly. "There is no hope, Haslor. They will be corralled and slain, those who remain will be put in chains for the remainder of their days.</p><p>"Should the counter-assault fail, the army of the free peoples will be torn asunder. Long years may pass before the numbers can be rekindled. We need a captain, Haslor. We need you now, as never before."</p><p>"I have said as much," Mack the Knife replied while turning the dagger round and round with his fingers.</p><p>For a moment, Haslor glared. The full weight of it bore upon Mack the Knife, and he shied away, for it was a heavy thing, burdened with toil, loss, regret… and strength known to but a few who survived long enough to wield it.</p><p>"Should the assault fail," Falcon spoke lowly, "the force in Tol Ascarnen will hold for as long as they can. But their resolve will soon break, as even the Hoarwell has been poisoned against them. The waters have turned the grass brown, and even the aurochs have fled south to new pastures. There will be no hope, for none will survive either starvation or the horde before the gates."</p><p>The fresh logs snapped within the hearth as the fire claimed both bark and the inner grains, and the heat of it filled the room with warmth, swiftly far too hot for the outpost. In the silence, the flames were soon unwelcome.</p><p>"The Enemy is defeated." Haslor stared into the fire. The flames had reached high, and the wood crackled with heat that soon reminded Samulson of flames from a distant land... Its ground was black from fire, and its hills barren.</p><p>"His lands have been laid bare. We were there, all of us, do you not remember?" Haslor turned again from the fire, and he still seemed not himself, but a Lord of the West. </p><p>"We stood upon the east hill before the Morannon." Samulson felt the heat upon his brow, slick and damp, and the smell of wood smoke soon reminded him of burning oil, sweat, and the foul reek of The Wastes.</p><p>
  <em> And death. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before them, stretching as far as sight allowed, perhaps farther still, were the Black Lands. They were far from fair Ithilien, those forests a mere foreshadow upon their thoughts, and the doom that awaited them was eternal, unyielding, and fouler than even the rivers of Carn Dûm.</p><p>Samulson stood upon the base of a hill, Prince Imrahil above him alongside his counsel and Eomer, King of the Riddermark. Cerista, an elf maiden with dark hair and fair skin, clad in heavy armor and bearing a shield even greater than his own, stood to Samulson's right. To his left was Bimlorin, a champion of the dwarves who carried both a walking axe and great axe, both so large they could only be swung with immense might. </p><p>Samulson could not be certain, but amid the pounding of armor and drums, he thought he heard a fiddle play a familiar tune. He had heard it oft in lands far to the west, beside campfires, and it warmed his heart to hear the melody played then, in the Black Lands, before the end of all things.</p><p>Before them was the Morannon, a great gate of iron blackened by its forging and stone surrounding it. Dark watchtowers stood to either side, their ramparts and walls cruel and lined with jagged spikes. The towers were lit by unnatural fire, and a sheer stone wall with metal ramparts extended from them and into the mountainside. Beyond the gate was Udûn, a land of terrible industry and suffering, and beyond its narrow valley were the Plains of Gorgoroth. Though it lay many leagues to the east through the lands of Mordor, Samulson could see the topmost tier of Barad-dûr above the gate, taller even than the mountains - save one.</p><p>It filled him with dread.</p><p>Standing before the great gate of Mordor, surrounding them, were the hosts of the Enemy. They sprinted forth, a tide of black and red, their cruel banners flailing in the foul wind.</p><p>"Take heart, <em> mellyn </em>," Cerista said softly. </p><p>"Heart! I will take heart, head, and limb!" shouted Bimlorin. Stout and fierce, he laughed as the host of Mordor shook the ground before them. "<em> Baruk khazad!" </em> he cried as the host sprinted up the hill and crashed into their lines. His axe split an uruk's helm. The metal was rent from his strike, and the dwarven weapon rose in another sweeping arc of raging blades that brought still more to their doom on the slope of the hill.</p><p>From behind, Anna played her fiddle, lifting the spirits of all around her. A dark arrow struck her shield, but her resolve knew few equals, and all were grateful for her melodies, save the orcs.</p><p>Beside them, Samulson slammed his shield into the wave of enemies and thrust them back. Assault after assault was met this way, and his arm grew weary as the Nazgûl swept upon the Army of the West and encouraged their fell beasts upon them. Moments passed to minutes, and soon they grew longer, until a new foe of the Enemy forayed onto the battlefield. The olog-hai, trolls clad in heavy armor and of a wit akin to men, slammed into their lines. Hundreds fell as they had not for long years, not since the wars of an age long past, for no battle was as great as the one they faced.</p><p> Weariness soon lead to despair, and as the ranks of the free peoples fell, their retreat up the hill awash with blood, Samulson saw his doom written upon the mighty axe of an olog-hai. It came upon him, and though his arm rose to meet its jagged blade it would do little good, for his strength was long spent.</p><p>Yet from behind he heard a battle call, and the cruel weapon that would be Samulson's end met what seemed white fire. Before him, in the gloom, Haslor stood wreathed in white light, his armor awash with it. And held before him was Númenvérist, its foreblade gleaming and gem kindled as bright as the stars of Valacirca on a clear night, when naught but the wind stirs.</p><p>"<em> Elendil! </em> " shouted the captain, and the doom was naught, for the blade of the olog-hai was turned aside, and the light of Elbereth shone down upon the battlefield. Before Samulson, the dark host drew back in fear of the <em> dúnadan </em>, and the weapons of his allies seemed to gleam with the light of the stars as the mighty olog-hai was pierced and beaten, and his end made sure.</p><p>Haslor lent Samulson his arm. "On your feet, warden. The day is not yet ended," he said softly. </p><p>Samulson rose, his morale risen, and despair swiftly forgotten. </p><p>"Should we live unto sunrise," spoke Samulson, and Haslor's brow rose, "I will take you for the finest drink in the Bree-lands. Thank you, Haslor - you have my shield, forever, and I will be your shadow for as long as I may follow."</p><p>Haslor laughed suddenly and clapped the warden on the shoulder. "I should like that. Hold fast, Samulson! The promise of drink is as good as any to see us through."</p><p>The day was long and wearisome, but the Army of the West held, its courage spurred by Elessar and the great lieutenants who came to rally beneath his banners. As those who remained ascended to the top of both hills, with nowhere to flee, they prepared their last stand beneath the banners of the many kinships of Middle-earth. </p><p>Yet before them the forces of Mordor halted. Tens of thousands began to flee, and as many orcs and trolls assaulted their brethren in maddened savagery, while others thrust themselves upon swords and pikes in desperate fury. </p><p>Beyond the Morannon, Samulson saw the unassailable walls of Barad-dûr crumble, and its topmost tower fall. A great darkness rose from the sundered fortress and came forth, its wrath and purpose of vengeance clear. Yet its reach faltered as Mt. Doom's peak burst with fire and ash, and the dark presence faded from the sky. </p><p>And all of Middle-earth.</p><p>Beside him, Haslor set his hand upon Samulson's shoulder, and Bimlorin joined them at the flank while leaning against his walking axe. Saeldris, robes spattered with blood, accompanied Rastlan, Meow, and Lucibell. From the slopes below, Cerista helped Alcarnarmo to the fore, and Tibulant strode with Neemiriel and Glolas. The last of them, Edharon, Falcon, and others climbed the hill's ascent from a deep valley laden with the dead. </p><p>The kinship was gathered very nearly together, though a seldom few had not fought at the gate but apart, in their own lands, on battlefields across Middle-earth. </p><p>"The war is ended. The Enemy… no more," spoke Haslor quietly, and the gem within Númenverist faded as hope prevailed across lands both dark and light after the ruin of the Lord of the Black Lands. For as his strength faded, so too did his works, and his chief servants were dispelled. Atop the hill was not the last time the kinship had gathered together, but it was the time most memorable, for soon after Haslor proclaimed his oaths fulfilled. Many thought then it was truly the end of conflict, and that the dark had at last departed from the realm.</p><p> </p><p>Yet it was not so.</p><p> </p><p>Samulson heard Haslor say again, "The Enemy is no more," yet the wastes beyond Ithilien's borders were once again a distant memory, though the foul smell of smoke and battle did not fade as swiftly as the sight of it.</p><p>"And yet his hosts have returned. The Black Appendage has been recalled from the dark reaches of Nurn, beyond the Ephel Duath," said Falcon, whose eyes drooped as though he had awoken from a dream.</p><p>Haslor frowned, and Samulson saw the kindness he was so known for depart him. "You know this how?"</p><p>"An assassin who bore the black hand of their tribe," said Falcon gravely, "found in the gorge before the frozen river of Arador's End. Slain by Samulson, but not before he spoke of being sent to knife you in the night."</p><p>"The time to bring our Enemy to his end, once and for all, is nigh. We have but to cut his final limb. Join us now, Haslor - before idleness brings ruin to Tol Ascarnen," said Samulson.</p><p>The captain sighed, and his gaze turned from his guests to the halberd. For a short while, the room was quiet. The crackling fire and mountain winds all that disturbed the unnerving silence.</p><p>"Oath-Keeper of the West," Haslor said at last. "That is the halberd's name in the common tongue. Out of respect for those who crafted it, my ancestors never gifted it another name, not even in the language of Númenor." </p><p>The captain sighed and rubbed his knee, the one that ached in the cold. "It was my father's. And his father's before his. And so forth, unto the dawn of Númenor and before," but before the tale's end, Haslor was interrupted.</p><p>"Forgive me friend," boomed the voice of Falcon. "You have been a gracious host, but what might a weapon have to do with those besieged? Aside from aiding in the bloodshed that would lend them freedom from their captors?"</p><p>Samulson looked pained, but Mack the Knife chuckled. "A question I, too, would enjoy the answer to."</p><p>Haslor shook his head and combed back strands of black hair. "Listen, and you will know why I cannot come with you to Tol Ascarnen, though I yearn that it would be so." He sighed. "Its forging was not of Men, but of the great smiths of the <em> noldor </em>in the First Age, when Anor and Ithil were both young, and the Ered Luin were not bordered by a coast to the west, but by a wide continent. </p><p>"Within that sprawling country was the Kingdom of Hithlum, a land long broken, but it was once bordered by great mountains and home to a High King, Fingolfin, whose might has not been witnessed for a time greater than an age. </p><p>"It was there in that ancient land surrounded by mountains that my halberd was made, and the craft of it has long departed Middle-earth. It is no mere metal, but mithril, and it is bound by spellcraft. For Fingolfin forbade any who wielded Númenverist from abandoning their oaths, no matter the cost, or they would be cursed For the weapon would forsake its bearer in the hour of their greatest need, and its power claimed in the age that followed not by their descendendants, but only by one worthy of it."</p><p>Haslor turned from the ancient halberd and regarded them all. "Long ago I swore to fight unto our Enemy's end, and no longer, for I knew then war has a terrible price, and I would not see my kinsman suffer its consequence again. Alas, would that I had spoken more carefully. Yet I will not break my oath, as I will not forsake the heirloom of my family." </p><p>Samulson shook his head. "Is it oathbreaking when our Enemy's servants linger still, doing his bidding with such cruelty? Surely-"</p><p>But Samulson's words were cut short, and Haslor's voice rose above his and was overcome with sharpness. "His end was made. We must learn to live in peace with the uruks. Parlay with them, grant them lands, if we must, but the time for war is over, and my time upon the field of battle is no more."</p><p>Samulson's jaw clenched, and beside him Falcon muttered. </p><p>"How can you say such things? You are not the Captain Haslor I once knew. That man would never sit idle while those he bled with suffered so, cowering behind oaths and promises from a king long dead. That man would have made haste to the fore, and naught would have tempered his rallying cry."</p><p>"You know nothing of oaths, Sam!" Haslor answered in turn. Fury had overcome him, and his guests drew away, for the blood of his forebears was as fire within him. "You were raised in Bree-land beneath thatched roof and beside livestock, your people safeguarded from the blood spilt by <em> my people </em>. Do not lecture me on responsibility, or what I owe! My debt is paid in full, my blood and scars its proof, and you should be grateful for it!"</p><p>The room grew silent again. The flames from the fire had grown low, smoldering, and it seemed to Samulson and Falcon that Haslor had cast a long shadow upon the hearth, and the fire had withered and grown low beneath it.</p><p>Slowly, the captain's fury receded, as low tide across the Bay of Belfalas, and his head bent. "Forgive me. I spoke in anger, and I should have not."</p><p>"There is naught to forgive. You spoke your mind, <em> lord </em>," replied Falcon, his distaste clear. Mack the Knife rose and laid hands upon his friend, and the two of them sat slowly as Samulson watched, stricken, his heart swelling with sorrow.</p><p>"Stay the night. There is food and drink aplenty, and we can make room for a restful sleep," Haslor said lowly while rubbing his brow.</p><p>"I…" Samulson found himself unable to reply as the captain's words struck deep. Too often had he been inspired by the captain, so his rebuff weighed heavily upon Samulson's heart. He turned to Falcon, yet no words would come.</p><p>"We will not rest beneath a warm room with food in our bellies while others watch their home burn, their friends slain, and starve as the larder shrinks. Come." Falcon hauled the warden to his feet and grasped their raiment. </p><p>"So be it," answered Haslor, for he was still proud, and he would not abandon his oath or beg them to remain. For honour bound him, and tradition, and since taking up his first practice sword in the armories of Minas Tirith, Haslor had been a man of his word. </p><p>And so, he and Mack the Knife watched their kinsman depart the outpost for the frozen pass of Arador's End, the wind biting cold and as warming as the captain's oath.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 5</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>SUNDERING OF THE FELLOWSHIP</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The grassy slope leading to Tol Ascarnen and its lawn met a sandy beach beneath the eastern ruins of </span>
  <span>Ost Lôdhuin, its ruined battlement overlooking the river and its bank far below</span>
  <span>. Long known for its fjords, the eastern arm of the Hoarwell was shallow enough for even the shortest of folk to pass through its calm waters before deepening dramatically to the south. To the north were beaches infested with norbogs, and the falls whose waters flooded the north of Tol Ascarnen and echoed loudly within the gully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atop the crest of the hill to the west, beyond the ruins, lay the banners of Gramsfoot, pillars of smoke rising beneath them and billowing across the lawn whence they rose high to mar the horizon and beautiful clouds. The air was foul with death and smog, and most who drew near felt a sense of dread in their hearts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon the eastern beach stood Meow, her head bowed and hands covering her features. She bent to the sands, heart weighed heavy by such loss as the fall of the castle, for it was as a treasured home to all who had fought within her hallowed courtyard, or defended her ruined walls from attack in the long months of the war… and before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What will become of those captured?" Meow turned to her friends, gaze soon turning to the lawn, and her heart weighed heavier still with anguish in sight of the terrors there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing not far away were Edharon and Saeldris, and though sorrow clung to them, they did not know its gripping terror as Meow did. They looked to the bridge to the south, and to the slope before them searching, without rest, for the enemy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Those who are fortunate may yet live, though I would not say fortune favors them. They will be lashed in irons and marched south to the Lumber Camp, or else sold and sped north through winds and snow to Isendeep Mine," said Edharon. "Those less so…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Farn, Edharon.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Saeldris looked from Edharon to Meow and rested a hand on her shoulder before kneeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Worry not, </span>
  <em>
    <span>meril</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The foul worms of Gramsfoot will be put to the sword for their deeds here, yet wait," Saeldris' keen gaze turned to the south, for she thought she heard a creature creeping towards them, and a flash of sable raised her guard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What is it?" Meow drew an arrow, as did Edharon beside her, but their search was ended swiftly as Rastlan crept to their side and they caught sight of him, yet none were at ease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burglar's arms and face were spattered with black blood, and much of his own soiled his hands. To see him was to know the pains of battle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "They have barricaded the whole of the isle, claimed both bridges so that none may pass, and a scouting party will soon be upon us. We have moments to spare before we must flee, far from the fjord, or risk capture," spoke Rastlan gravely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then our path is clear. We must cross the fjord with haste and make for Tirith Rhaw. Our allies there will give us shelter, and with them we might rally and return," said Saeldris, but her words were met with a dour gaze from Rastlan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," spoke the burglar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We can't help the others if we are captured or killed, Rast. Better we run," said Meow, and her dark eyes turned east to the far bank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We can, and we shall, bring swift aid to the others. We will stay, and harry the enemy to his defeat," Rastlan replied, and his words were hot as iron within the forge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What manner of aid might we bring while we are stranded here?" asked Saeldris. "We are not great in number, the enemy is many, and I would not ride to my end for naught, nor see others slain for a fool's errand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The four friends looked between one another quietly for a time. Meow drew closer to Rastlan, for she felt his ire for the elves growing, as there was oft arguments between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is no fool's errand," said Rastlan at last, "what we will do, what we </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> do, is a task long neglected, a battle fought in the shadows across long months of toil. We make haste with all speed to the south to draw our enemy from his antre, and once we have lured him free we will slay the great black warg."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fellowship of four sat in silence for a time, but they were of no mind to idle long. The steps of their enemy could be heard faintly to the north, and wretched horns bellowed from the beaches and far lawn to the south and west.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"None gathered here would forsake retribution, yet there is far more at stake than your enmity of the wargs," said Edharon at last. "If we are to reclaim the Isle of Rushing-Water, we must first rally with the remains of the Army of the Free-Peoples, as Saeldris says. All else seems folly, for our fellowship is not yet full, and it would take a number far greater even so to bring the enemy to bear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I agree, </span>
  <em>
    <span>randir</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Saeldris turned from Edharon to Rastlan. "Now come, let us ford the river." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet before she could begin to wade through the shallows, Rastlan took hold of her arm. His voice lost none of its heat as he answered, "Tol Ascarnen did not fall because of our enemy's strength of arms. It fell at last because of the enemy's chief scout, the great black warg." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both elves glared at the burglar, and Saeldris turned so that she might pull her arm free with a slow twist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was he who crept past the defenses and at last drew open the doors, and he shall do so again in Tirith Rhaw, lest we make an end of him," Rastlan added, though he did not apologize, and his tone lost none of its passion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fellowship fell once more to silence, and the disposition of the two elves grew sour, for they cared little for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dunedain's</span>
  </em>
  <span> tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm going with Rast," said Meow abruptly. The hobbit strode to his side and turned to look at her other friends. "He's right. We have to kill that scout, or…" yet her words failed her, for the thought of such great ruin that might come filled her with dread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Warning our allies is of greater importance than a single warg." Saeldris looked between Meow and Rastlan. "What shalt we risk for revenge? The forces of Gramsfoot might marshal their legions and march east at dusk with speed, taking the scouts of Tirith Rhaw with no warning. If the tower is not given heed, it may too fall, and these lands will fall prey to a lasting shadow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yet, our list of allies may grow thinner should the great black warg be allowed to roam, for he will surely harry all that he may with craft and villainy," said Rastlan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are blinded by anger, Rastlan." Edharon shook his head and gestured to the west. Above them, a billowing darkness had begun to rise, thick and foreboding. "The fall of Tol Ascarnen weighs heavy upon us all, but we cannot give in to wrath. If you-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do not feel ill at ease, </span>
  <em>
    <span>elf</span>
  </em>
  <span>," said Rastlan suddenly, and his anger was no longer hot iron, but a furnace of wrath. "What I propose is what must be done."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will you not heed wisdom?" Edharon asked, his pale eyes narrowed and expression stark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I heed what is right!" Rastlan glared, and Meow stepped back from him, for such was his fury and might that he seemed as fire. Edharon and Saeldris did not move, and their cove of calm fueled his ire so that it grew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am finished listening to advice from elves who </span>
  <em>
    <span>skulk</span>
  </em>
  <span> in hidden valleys and mythic woods, biding their time before they sail west and retire as we suffer still! I tire of your wanton indecision, </span>
  <em>
    <span>for as you prosper</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the age's end, we lurk in the ruins of our fathers and cling to a despairing hope, beggars in lands rightfully ours."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon strode forward and began to answer, for anger had begun to swell within him, but he was swiftly calmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Enough," said Saeldris. Her star-strewn gaze turned to Edharon. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dara mellon,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she said, and Edharon stilled, his ire stifled to a smolder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris turned back to Rastlan. "Should you choose this path, you shalt not see Anor set twice more, save with eyes of stone forever shown the sky above in the ruins of your kin, and those around you will suffer greatly amidst the doom set upon you," and as she spoke her gaze turned from Rastlan to Meow, and it was filled with pity. "For we are the cord that fuels the fire of your fate, and all shall know its hot touch before the end."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I care not for my doom," spoke Rastlan hotly, and behind him Meow remained worried, her brown gaze turning from the burglar to the rune-keeper. She touched his arm gently and looked to the elves. "Nor do I care for the fates of others, for we are leaves upon the wind of fortune, and it will blow as it will."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon scoffed and turned from the fellowship. "Alas that these days are ours, that fates should be woven thus as </span>
  <em>
    <span>leaves upon a wind</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So be it," said Saeldris, before the coals of anger might be stoked again, and she turned to Edharon. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Gwaeg an Tirith Rhaw,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she said woefully,</span>
  <em>
    <span> "a trenad Lucibell i Tol Ascarnen dannant.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon turned from Saeldris to Rastlan, and then his chin dipped in a nod of farewell. The burglar ignored him, and so the elf hunter looked to his eldest friend and bowed low, hand to his breast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silent exchange passed between them, and more was said in the gesture and their gaze than could ever be spoken, though he spoke one, a single farewell, and the weight of it could not be measured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Novaer.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Saeldris answered, bowing less, yet with no less courtesy, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Novaer, randir."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Meow rushed forward and embraced her friend around the leg. Edharon smiled and gently patted the hobbit's back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Goodbye, Edharon," said Meow softly as she stepped back and ignored the glare from Rastlan behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Farewell, Meow," Edharon said before taking a step backwards and nodding to each of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, he spoke no final words to Rastlan, nor did he embrace him, and that he would come to regret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His course took him to the river, which he waded across swiftly, before finding the path on the opposite bank. Edharon knew in his heart he would not see them again as their fellowship was sundered, but such is fate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those who remained watched the hunter depart, but they did not remain long in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Our path is south," said Rastlan, "where we shall escape notice beneath the bridge. Come, before we are seen," and he crouched and marshaled all of his skill to keep them from sight. Saeldris and Meow followed, and they moved swiftly while following the bank south.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet from the bushes to the north, red eyes watched the sundering of the fellowship, and black fur bristled beneath the foliage as shadows not of the fellowship's followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 6</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>THE DREAD OF THE FREE PEOPLES</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spitted on a spike before the gate of Tol Ascarnen were the gruesome remains of a hobbit's head. His hair had been combed to the side, his ears hewn off, and an eye carved into his brow with a jagged blade. Beside it were many others - men, elves, and dwarves - the walls and ground beneath them stained red with their blood, their skin ashen pale and features mutilated from fangs and those who claimed noses, beards, ears, and all else as trophies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beneath the remains were several orcs, a bag sopping with blood between them. Among their number was Kateclysm the Defiler who cackled with laughter while roughly patting the decapitated hobbit's brow. "The rest of him will end up in the dung-pile," she cackled through her drake mask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aye, where the likes o' Jili will be," said another while reaching for a severed head and lifting it from the bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Once we ford the river," Kateclysm said with a hiss, for its waters were still not befouled enough for her liking, "and take Hoarhollow from the mayor of the rat-folk, aye. I'll stick her myself and watch the life leave her eyes," another head was thrust on a pike, and Kateclysm gave it a twist, "and we'll bleed her dry." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those gathered laughed cruelly while continuing their work in haste, as none of them wanted to feel the sting of a whip upon their back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Though only a day had passed since taking the castle, much work had been done through toil and forced labor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sky above Tol Ascarnen was darkened by a thick unnatural cloud, and the island seemed in a mist of dark sorcery that kept Anor's warmth and light from shining through. The sorcerous mist made the few free peoples who remained, all in chains, ill at ease. But the orcs, uruks, wargs and few weavers who had come to the isle were spurred to even greater strength beneath it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frayed red banners had been hung across the ramparts, upon them a lidless, black eye. The banners of the free peoples had been torn free and burned, or else defiled by orcs in their cruelty and mirth. Gibbets had been hung upon the walls, and all were filled with first-marshals and lieutenants the orcs hated most. Many had been shot with arrows while caged, unable to move, and left to scream in agony and die while uruks and orcs cheered at the sport, and wargs howled with hunger beneath them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fires in the west halls were put to an end, and the walls were already in a state of repair ere sunset, though it would take many more days before Tol Ascarnen was whole again. Thralls and skilled orcs labored with no rest, and many fell where they stood only to be forced to drink phials of aged man-blood mixed with grog. The strength of their limbs was restored, and the work seemed neverending beneath the whips and shouts of uruks as the foul drink coursed through them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon a rampart, watching the labors beneath, stood Tyrant Nazukât. As a warleader cracked the whip and a slave fell far below her upon the lawn, she snorted with disdain. Shouting followed from down below as one of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>globs </span>
  </em>
  <span>charged the warleader, but he merely backhanded the fool, and kicked him in the stomach until their ribs broke... soon after, their back, and blood began pool around them. The uruk laughed and cursed, and the thralls nearby dared to stare at their comrade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the stairs below, Nazukât heard heavy steps approaching the rampart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Get back to work, maggots!" cried a slave master while snapping his whip with a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span>. "Or I'll </span>
  <em>
    <span>tan your hides.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât watched as the </span>
  <em>
    <span>glob</span>
  </em>
  <span> was left to die, and none dared help him as they returned to their labors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind, a warleader climbed onto the rampart from the stairs below and growled a curse. He lifted his helmet free of his head and tucked it in the crook of his arm, beneath his wide shield. "The work goes well, lord. Repairs to the outer wall have begun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above, the red banner was caught in a sudden breeze. The air was foul, but Nazukât did not flinch from it. She merely nodded, gaze captured by the scene far below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Most o' the </span>
  <em>
    <span>globs</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been captured, or put to the knife," the warleader went on. With each step, his armor rattled until he came to stand before her. "The boys're eaten good," he laughed coldly and licked his lips. "The orcs put most to hauling stone and water from the river."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât's gaze never turned from the fallen slave far below. He had begun to move, crawling slowly towards the beach and a discarded scimitar. When at last he reached it, he pressed the long blade into his belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearby, uruks and orcs saw the slave's attempt, and they howled with laughter at the sight of it. One raised his whip and lashed the slave's back and face, sending blood scouring across the lawn as the slave wept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's naught to be afraid of, lord," the warleader went on. "The castle will be restored by the month's end. Stocked and armed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât reached for her bow and slowly drew an arrow, aim fluid and without flaw. Behind her, the warleader watched, silent, as the shaft was set loose. Down below, it struck the slave in the head, knocking him down onto the dead grass below with considerable strength. Before him, the slavers halted their laughter and stared, suddenly aware they were being watched, and returned to work in haste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>glob</span>
  </em>
  <span> did not move again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spare few could land such a strike, yet not since the passing of Drenarino could one claim skill such as hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only one thing frightens me," spoke Nazukât quietly as she set her bow aside and turned from her mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the distance, to the west, approached a dark line of banners. Upon them were black hands, and red eyes set in the palms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had a mind to flee from the high walls of the castle, but Tol Ascarnen was hers, and she hoped the Dread, and the Black Appendage Tribe, would pass on after tribute. Though powerful, they were not servants of Angmar, but of the Eye. A foreboding dread still overtook her, for there had been whispers of their dark craft, and she feared what they might do if allowed entry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet worse, another fear lingered still in her mind… what they might do if denied it, and asked to wait upon the lawn like vagabonds, driftwood upon the river given no attention. She thought better not to stir their wrath, and hoped it would be enough. Yet even so…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Far below, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>glob</span>
  </em>
  <span> breathed his last, and she wondered if the uruk deserved what she dreamed for in sight of such misery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât shivered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A fell horn blew through Tol Ascarnen, and its very foundations seemed to shake as banners of dark gold, torn, frayed and stained with blood and dirt, were born into the castle by orcs and uruks clad in thick armor of black iron. Among them were strangely colored weavers, and wargs of unusual pattering, their fur thick and hides scarred from war and conquest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât stood in the courtyard, clutching her bow, the dark host of Tol Ascarnen behind her. Their battered banners stood high and baleful - Cohorts of the Red Legion chief among them - and flailed in a putrid breeze, made cool from the Hoarwell to the south.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the arriving host marched forward, many of Tol Ascarnen's orcs cleared from the halls, creeping backward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Move aside, maggots!" called a deep voice at the fore. He was named Bludghash, and behind him was the banner of the Black Appendage Tribe - a field of gold surrounding a crudely drawn black hand, and within the palm a lidless eye, shaped as a slitted flame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind Bludghash, Caek and Tuesday, snarling wargs, crept forward. Their jaws snapped, but the van behind them was long. Yicky and Stickeez crept along the wall, long limbs creeping forward, and upon the lawn Vyx stood with a small retainer of war-ready orcs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, no other but Bludghash spoke. His tusks were pierced with golden rings, and his eyes were red and dark with purpose. "Listen, scum! Bow, for you stand before the Herald of the Eye," he turned, gesturing to the walls above the gate as something akin to shadows crept atop them, "The Dread of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât watched as a dark shape, nigh as large as the hallway before the gate of Tol Ascarnen, crept over the vast walls of the castle. Its foreleg covered the breadth of a doorway, and its body was shielded in a black carapace scarred purple. Its head was massive, large enough to swallow a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tark</span>
  </em>
  <span> whole, and four great fangs, covered in bristly black hairs, beset its wide mouth. Seven eyes, each seemed wrought as if from gold with a jagged red iris as bright as fire, looked down upon the courtyard. The eighth was scarred closed, but those that remained were fiercer for it, as if embroiled by an olden malice, or a dark wisdom withheld from even the very wise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the massive weaver - a spider akin to the greatest of its kind -  descended, stones from the walls fell to the courtyard and tumbled across dead grass and the tracks of mud left by the gathered host of Tol Ascarnen. Before the Dread came to the ground below, the gathered holsts fell to their knees before her. It was as if there was a spell upon them, for none had listened to the commands of Bludghash when given, but obeyed in the end, their wills overcome by malice unknown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the mighty ologs crouched to their knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nazukât felt herself lowering, and wondered if she had not drunk too much grog as her mind went numb, and the strength of the uruk-hai was driven free of her. Her limbs disobeyed her mind, and she did not rise, and enthralled so she could only glare as she fought against the will of the terror before her - The Dread of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before her, the Dread crept to the bottom of the wall and strode forward, her eight legs creeping with slow intent. Nazukât had never seen a weaver of her size, for she stood as tall as the statues of the shriekers and their fell beasts, larger than the Dark Lord's monuments. Larger even than Caragdal, whose brood feasted on errant wanderers of the woods of Hithlad. As she moved, Nazukât saw a darkness creeping behind the spider - it spread as mist, issuing through the hosts, and rose into the sky to darken it still more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell of the weaver and her poison was horrid, and it made Nazukât's mind fill with terror and despair as the shrill cry of the shriekers, the Dark Lord's most fearsome servants, had once done. Foot by foot, the dread drew closer until she was but a short distance away, the flaming gaze of her eyes seeming to peer through them as if they nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merely air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unbidden, a quiet voice, wreathed with malice and terror, seemed to be heard throughout the courtyard. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hlazgu! Ankzish durbum vizku akanduzgûl.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The Black Speech of Mordor was known to seldom few, for orcs and uruks were not learned in the ancient tongues of their Lord, and instead chose to distort and misshape the languages of others to their simple purpose. Yet even as </span>
  <span>Nazukât heard the Black Speech, she knew its meaning, as clear as still waters: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Harken! I am our Lord's new chosen</span>
  </em>
  <span>," and all else she knew after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around her, shadows lengthened, spun as a spider's web that stretches the breadth of two posts. While the voice spoke in their minds, there seemed a low rumble throughout the castle, as if the very ground was moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Our Lord Sauron shalt rise again</span>
  </em>
  <span>," said the voice, and when the Dark Lord's name was spoken, terror spread across the host that was gathered, and many began to weep for mercy as the ground quaked, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>his strength undiminished as darkened sea. For I hath borne witness to his spirit! It yet endures, kindled, and he awaits in the darkness for thy service.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More wailed, hopeless, while Nazukât's clawlike hands wrenched into the soil beneath her. Her neck and back split with pain, as if her skin was being torn free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yet unfound in the mountains of the north of the world lieth a treasure of immense value, and with it our Lord's spirit may yet be reborn. I sayeth now, before it may be reclaimed, thou must lay waste to the army of rabble that has made its seat on the banks of the Mitheithel. For thy defenses will falter if a great host were to pass forth, or thy host would be undone in battle if too few a number march.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the dread's voice spoke within their minds, Nazukât felt the weaver's gaze settle upon her, and it was a loathsome burden that bent her forward into the ground. And with it, another whisper rose unbidden in the landscape of her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I see you.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The dread's eyes seemed made of darkness and fire, and Nazukât's mind was flayed as if by a butcher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Prepare the fortress," </span>
  </em>
  <span> spoke the dread, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>and thou shalt receive a bounty beyond thy imagining."</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The forces of Tol Ascarnen rose, the spell ended, and came to from their stupor. Most hurried to their tasks, glad to be free from the terror that had gripped them, for few, though they were peoples accustomed to torment, desired to be enthralled so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None dared approach, and few seemed to notice Nazukât as Bludghash strode forward, and the warleaders barked orders in haste to bring order.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You cannot hide from me… tyrant.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>But as the horde heard the dread's command and were released, Nazukât remained bent, and all seemed to have forgotten her rank, or else cared not for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Burzumishi krimpatuz snagazka.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew then that her mind was sundered from her body, and that she was no more, for naught could she remember but the dark spell of The Dread of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, and that it bound her spirit to the weaver's will.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let darkness bind mine servant to me…</span>
  </em>
  <span> came the words, and it was so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all was void as Tyrant </span>
  <span>Nazukât obeyed the command, for she knew no other master, and had no will of her own before the evil that had come to Tol Ascarnen and laid claim to all.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 7</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>UNTIMELY INSIGHT</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A chill breeze, the remnant of frozen winds amidst the Misty Mountains to the north, stirred the thin layer of snow across the ridge beneath Arador's End. Fresh, green grass grew thick and tall above the river's shore, and though it was speckled with snow, wildflowers grew along the ridge and down the bank to the south. Hues of blue, violet, white, and light red were scattered across the steep slope where the line of snow met its end. Down below, in the riverbed, the flowers grew amidst knotted trees and roots that clung to the ridge's steep incline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sky above was blue and clear, with an occasional white cloud seen to the east and west. Far to the north, the peaks of Arador's End were shrouded in dark clouds, as they often were, and assailed by terrible winds. The smog above Tol Ascarnen in the south had not cleared with the breeze, as it was thick and seemed to cling aberrantly to the stones of the castle, for it was stubborn to depart, lest the Army of Angmar march away from the battlements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Gift of the Eye the smog was called, and though the Dark Lord was defeated, his power lingered still, clinging to his servants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two sets of footprints were left in the snow before the ridge. One lead to the Hoarwell and its sandy shore, where they resumed again. The waters were nigh frozen, and they bore shards of ice into the waterfalls' sudden rapids and mist. To the south were the falls, roaring and swift, and beyond them a perilous drop beset by jagged stone cliffs. Before the greatest of the rapids was an eddy filled with churning foam and calm water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above the eddy, still upon the ridge, stood Falcon, his amber gaze upon a cluster of white flowers. He had seen their like only once before in his travels - on the road north from Edoras, in a short valley inlaid with barrows - while passing through Kingstead, a vast, green country of Rohan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A knight of Rohan, separated from his </span>
  <em>
    <span>éored</span>
  </em>
  <span>, had told him the name of the flower, yet Falcon could not recall it. As his hair was blown by the mountain breeze, his large fingers pinched a single white flower and pulled it gently until root and petals were at last released. Smiling, he stood and looked down the ridge, remembering the barrows of kings and beauty of those flower-covered mounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the eddy was Samulson, a waterskin in hand. Expression sour, the warden crouched upon a stone as chunks of ice gathered 'round him. Spear and shield had been left on the bank, yet he clutched fast his javelin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A beautiful day," Falcon called from above, his voice carrying easily over the roar of swift waters. He strode over the ridge and landed hard in the sands of the bank beneath. Turning, he walked for the eddy. "Perhaps it will lend the people besieged some hope."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson crouched still, silent, while studying the churning waters just beyond his reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon sighed lowly and lifted the flower to his broad nose. It smelled sweet and of fresh rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looked again, dozens of white petals were strewn through the air on a chill breeze, shaken free from where he once stood. As they were swept over the falls, he wondered if their passage did not carry some meaning, a pressing missive dispatched by fate. Yet his thoughts turned, wandering the footpaths of his memories, until, at last, they arrived in a place they so often did… within sight of a beauty greater even than where he stood. Her hair was the color of honey, eyes as blue as the sky above him, shoulders broad and teeming with strength, and she had his heart. He loved none other, and there his thoughts remained, lost amidst such overwhelming memories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My wife, she would like these flowers," said Falcon after the crashing of the falls awakened him from his fond memories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tucked the bloom away in a pocket, carefully, where it might be pressed and dried. "She cherishes sweet smells," he chuckled, "likely why she tolerates me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apart from sweet smells, beornings had great respect for the land, much like hobbits, though theirs was in need of defense from wargs and goblins to the west, and from orcs to the north, for they were in constant struggle to safeguard their lands from foes. Wrathful, they often passed through the outskirts of deep wilderness alone, ever watchful for the enemy, and so they had become large folk, able-bodied, and had great respect for those who were the same. Though even the smallest of beornings could heft a tree trunk upon their shoulders, or crush an iron cuirass. For Falcon, Samulson was a notable exception, as he was, by any beorning's standards… small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson looked up from the waters. "You have a wife?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh aye. And three little ones. Two girls and a boy," he held out his paw of a hand to show their heights, "we've one more to be born in the fall. Another girl, I think."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson drew up his wineskin and pressed the cork inward. "You have never spoken of a family before. Tell me of them?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm. My boy, Drengvir, is the eldest. He was quick to take up the axe. Before I journeyed west, he begged to come." Falcon nodded gravely, gaze distant. "I denied him. He now stands watch with many others before our village, but the Misty Mountains will soon know his wrath. At heart, he is no farmer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson noticed a moment of sadness pass over his friend, but it did not linger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My girls, Valdthrith and Ranhild, help tend to our gardens and hives. They take after their mother most." Falcon smiled. "And my wife, her will is strong. Few things frighten her, fewer still cause her worry. She has always had great love for children and the woods about our home." Falcon's smile widened, and again he forgot his many worries as he thought of her, pride and love mingling as one, "She is beautiful, and the largest woman I have ever known."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson tried not to laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Larger than you," spoke Falcon as he scowled at his friend. "Larger than all common men, I should think. Her arms are as thick as tree limbs, her legs like boulders, and she stands to my shoulders."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to stop himself, Samulson burst into laughter and covered his mouth. Eyes clamped shut, his mirth escaped him until he began to cough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Falcon asked, brows bent with scorn. "We are a hardy folk…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At long last, while Falcon scowled at him sternly, Samulson gained control of himself, and his mirth subsided. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between them, there was a period of silence, and during it the warden's mood turned melancholy once more. Falcon shook his head and stepped nearer, grumbling, as Samulson drew another water skin beneath the river's surface. Falcon stooped to grasp one already filled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're a sack of wine, do you know that?" Falcon scowled. "She is a woman of rare beauty, with a good heart."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am certain she is," Samulson answered quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You lie as bad as you smell." Falcon drank deep from the wineskin before kneeling to fill it to the brim once more, yet Samulson did not answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Perhaps one day you will march east and find yourself beneath my roof. We are humble folk, not accustomed to the beauty of the elves, or ruins of your kin, nor the stone halls of the woodland king or the lords of the mountains. Nor have we the hospitality of," he paused, frowning deeply, "truly, any folk," which was true, as Falcon's kin were notoriously bad hosts. "But our lands are made safe and have been for half an age, and the food will fill your belly and grant you strength as you have never known. My wife will see to it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson smiled for only a moment. "They are not my ancestors, not by a wide league, though I would like that. One day… one day."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are they not? I thought all men came from the west. Tell me of your family, Sam?" For though they had taken many adventures together, Samulson spoke rarely of himself, his people, or the folk he fought for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson shook his head. "I have none. Perhaps a wife, children, one day. When the war is ended at last, and Bree-land's borders are made safe again from the threats of the North Downs and Lone Lands."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another silence followed. Falcon watched and waited, yet Samulson said nothing more, and the second span of quiet lasted as the two friends worked beside the falls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In truth, it was said Samulson's people shared a storied past. His mother's kin was thought to be long descended from servants of the House of Bëor, a story told by many families across Bree-land, and she was tall and fair with hair the hue of maple leaves in autumn. Samulson looked not at all like her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father, Samul, was short and broad shouldered, his muscles like cords of wood, and his skin was the color of chestnuts. It was from him Samulson had taken his likeness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samul's hair had faded early, and he was most unlike others of Bree-land in appearance and mood, as he was rarely seen in The Comb and Wattle and spoke to few. Yet none dared mock him, for he worked the ax and saw daily in the lumber camps of Chetwood, and it was said he could hew an ash in fewer than twenty strikes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His kin were said to be from Umbar, where once the Kings and Stewards of Gondor had reigned and given pardon to craftsman and traders who sought lives and liberty to the north. Over long years, Samul's kin served the lords of the west until at last settling in Bree-land, long separated from the golden shores of their homeland.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson spoke of his kin rarely, and though he loved his father, he bore some shame of his heritage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Say something, Sam," Falcon said at last. "Can you not lay aside your burdens? The road ahead is long, and we carry enough weight upon our backs without dwelling on what may have been.."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is nothing to say, old friend," Samulson answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is only because you do not see it as clear as I." Falcon crouched so that he could be level with the warden, but Samulson rose quickly and turned away while stoppering another waterskin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is nothing to see either, Falcon. Save failure." Samulson turned and watched the petals upon the cold breeze. Swept away, the blanket of white was lost beyond the mists of the falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do not see failure," Falcon replied. His large hand settled on Samulson's shoulder and squeezed. "When I look upon you, I see far more. The next great Captain of Men." He smiled. "Though... you are small."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson scoffed and shrugged his shoulder free. "I am no leader." He turned from the falls and picked up the rest of the waterskins. One was thrust into Falcon's arms, the rest he slung around his shoulder. "All my life, I have kept to the outskirts, patrolling, to keep my neighbors safe, yet they have no great love for me. Nor have they respect for any who keep evil from their towns and farms. I have always marched beneath another's banner, watched as laurels passed to my captain. Yet I harbor no complaints, I am content in the path I tread."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson stopped and looked to the sky, shoulders tense, and shook his head. Deeply troubled, he spat on the ground and thought as Falcon watched him. "We needed Haslor. The kinships would have rallied beneath him as one. No other can do what he may have, for though there are many leaders among the free peoples…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"None can unite them?" Falcon offered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson merely nodded, though his gaze was downcast, and he seemed without hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is one other who could, if only he had the courage to see it," said Falcon while gently pushing his friend's arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson scoffed. "Courage. Courage is a fool's hope."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon shook his head. "That may be, if all heroes are fools."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson scowled at his friend, and his answer was swift. "Courage lent me little aid when my home burned, and the people of Archet alongside it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Archet? I have never heard of it," Falcon answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Few have. It is north of the village of Bree, once home to a spare few, most of them good, simple folk."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see," Falcon replied, crossing his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Brigands set fire to it," Samulson said slowly. "The whole town, and a swath of the Chetwood." His eyes closed as memories, those he did not wish to see, came to the fore of his mind.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"A great hero of Eriador was there, alongside Atli Spider-bane and the captain's son, and they lent us aid as Amdir, a ranger from the Shire, grew ill from a morgul wound." Samulson paused for a moment, lowered his head, and continued, "The deputies saved as many of the townsfolk as they were able and hastened them to Combe... yet I was of no use, for there were servants of the Witch-king, wraiths of terrible power, who smote my resolve. I cowered in fear as the hero fought against them and a treacherous town guardsman, yet it was for naught, for the wraiths sped swiftly away with Amdir as the town burned. Many died, and I… I."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson stood in silence, overcome with grief, as tears of sadness trailed down his cheeks. The cries of the helpless pursued him, their forms wreathed in fire as Calder Cob, the treacherous snake, set the town ablaze, and laughed without mercy. Samulson thought then of his failure, for when he was needed most, he had failed, and nothing would remedy it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"After the fires, I put down my shovel and ax, and took up spear and shield, and swore to protect those who could not protect their own, who did not know the great evils who had taken root in our lands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yet I have no weapon of legend, no family name to pride myself with. No great sire," he nodded to Falcon, "to spur my reputation among outsiders. I am an outcast, a ranger of the wilds from a burned town he </span>
  <em>
    <span>failed</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Samulson snorted. "And no one has even heard its name."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson drew in a deep, cold breath that stung his chest, yet the icy pain from the river's chill was naught when faced with the biting truth of memory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The river rushed past while Falcon considered all Samulson had said. It was no small thing, for the warden had laid his heart bare. The beornings were not known for hospitality or kindness, but Falcon saw then the truth. And he spoke it, voice grave and low, "The age is at its end. Perhaps it is time for weapons with new legacies, and names given to those who seemed born of no great importance, yet have carried the burdens of many."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon turned and took up Samulson's spear. The warden watched, frowning, as the massive man extended it to him. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mordmentil</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I name it. The Ender of Darkness, for no shadow can endure her wielder's wrath, nor stay his courage."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson could not help a smile as his hand clasped firm the spear and held it to the light, whence it glinted as a bright gem, the light showering them with rays as bright as stars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you," Falcon gripped his shoulder as he looked over Mordmentil. "You, Samulson, I name Samulson </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lintvanta!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Samulson did laugh. "Swift-Marcher, is it? None would argue it, for I am a renown runner, though I am not certain it is the most inspiring name."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, for you are more than that." Falcon lowered his hand. "Samulson Lintvanta, Captain of Coldfells and Warden of the West. For these lands you hold dear, the people you safeguard without seeking reward or title, and all that is good and honorable from the ancient kingdoms of men may be seen within you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In disbelief, Samulson said, "You do me great honor Falcon, even if it is not so."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"One day, the fog will withdraw and the truth shall be revealed to you." Falcon looked past Samulson to the falls. The petals no longer stirred in the mountain breeze, and he saw only mist and something dark beneath it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think you mean to warm my spirits, cheer me up after…" Samulson sighed. "All that was spoken at the outpost. Yet I thank you all the same, old friend. You have lifted my spirits." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson turned also to the falls, and beyond them he saw an unnatural darkness, something kindled by more than mere shadow. "That is no cloud, Falcon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nor is it smoke," Falcon answered lowly. He breathed deep, and as his senses were keener than any man's he smelled the reek of the Dread's sorcery upon the air, and he knew it at once. "It is a foul breath from beyond the Morannon," he whispered, "the shadow-strewn darkness of Lhingris." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it was, for mingled amidst the darkened cloud rose a mist of green, and no ray of light from the sky might pierce it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two travelers turned to one another, and together they rushed to the precipice of the waterfall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the roaring falls, through the mists, they learned the truth. The sword-laden, ivory and blue banners of the Coldfells Army had been torn free and replaced by long, crimson banners beset by three crowns, each inlaid with a lidless eye. Lashes beat slaves</span>
</p><p>
  <span>upon the lawn, and hundreds worked to repair the damaged western walls of the castle that smoldered still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We are too late," realized Samulson while staring at the darkened sight beneath them. The green mist flooded through the castle, and he nearly wept for the fates of those who remained, whether they be in gibbets or chains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, both men began to lose hope. For Tol Ascarnen was once a place of beauty, filled with cherished memories of feasts, keeping watch during the long hours of the night beneath the light of torches, and the companionship of friends and kindred. The Dread's darkness crept into their hearts, and they wept at the sight of the fallen isle of rushing water, their morale burdened with terror and sadness unspeakable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But hope, though small, yet remained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon reached into his pocket and clutched a smooth stone. He drew it forth, revealing an </span>
  <em>
    <span>edhelharn </span>
  </em>
  <span>token. The elf-stone shown bright amidst the gloom, and they both felt renewed, awash in the pale light of Elbereth. For in the darkest of times, even the faintest glimmer of hope can yield the strength to press onward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ere the morning I found you," Falcon said slowly as the light from the stone faded and kindled their hearts with hope, "a great host of free peoples, bearing supplies and reinforcements, had made ready to march west and make an end of the siege. While they may have ended the Army of Gramsfoot upon an open field of battle, they will have no victory against the force that waits in Tol Ascarnen." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson watched ahead, though his thoughts soon turned to the defeat the free peoples would suffer before the walls should they attack without warning. The Trollshaws would be lost to darkness, and Eriador would suffer war for many generations hence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should they have kept a steady march," Falcon breathed deep, "they will reach the east bridge by morning, and lay claim to the castle's eastern ruins by midday."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson's head lowered, for they were many leagues from the host. And even with fresh horses, which they did not have, it was two days journey across the southern foothills of Arador's End and the northern plain of Coldfells to the east bridge of Tol Ascarnen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is but one way to meet them in time." Samulson peered over the ledge of the waterfalls, but saw only the jagged stone cliffs beneath, all else shrouded in mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're a fool, Sam," Falcon said hotly, yet he laughed boldly after. "Not even Ilthalion Sure-Foot would attempt such a leap." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, should they live, the river would guide them south to the eastern bridge where they might hail the gathered reinforcements. Falcon turned to his friend and looked down upon him, and though it seemed folly, he saw a glimmer of hope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If fate has wrought half of what you have said to be true, it will not matter. For we will surely survive the falls. If not…" Samulson spit over them, into the mists, and stared as it struck a jagged cliff. He winced. "Then our lives will have been for nothing, for there will be no peace left in Eriador if the Army of the Free Peoples is defeated."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon sighed. "I now regret all I have said. "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson grasped his friend's massive forearm. "Do you? I think the name you gave me fitting, for who would doubt it should we make such a journey in time?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hope, for our sake, it proves true. And for my sake, I hope I live to see it!" Falcon cried while peering over the ledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon saw then his old friend, his spark for life and adventure returned amidst the overwhelming dread beneath, and their certain doom before the falls of the Hoarwell above Tol Ascarnen. It was the Samulson he remembered - the man who marched from Bree-land to Mordor, who fought without end against the Enemy and asked for naught in return, who braved the frozen passage of Arador's End to beseech aid when they needed it most - and in his heart, Falcon knew his words to Sam had been more than fable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Together, they leapt from the precipice and fell through the mists of the waterfall. The cool air whipped their hair and warm clothing, and suddenly they were greeted by a rough cold that took from them their breath and the strength of their limbs as they plunged into the river's cold embrace.</span>
</p><p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 8 </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>ILL TIDINGS, MERRY MEETINGS</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Many hobbits sang and danced near the kitchens of Tirith Rhaw, the ancient tower of the Men of Rhudaur, built in the early years of the Third Age. A portion of wall, once a buttressed citadel, stood in ruin, though what remained of the doomed tower stood strong and firm save for a broken barrier wall, set atop a small, sheer precipice. Sentries of the Coldfells Army patrolled its front corridor and walls, and guards stood watch across its many battlements. To the west was a long lawn, set on a low hillside that eventually gave way to the banks of the Hoarwell and a passable fjord. To the east and south were scattered woods that eventually gave way to steep slopes of the northern Misty Mountains, the range that separated dreaded Angmar from the lands to the south. </p><p>Outstretched as a beacon of hope to the north was the path to Ost Ringdyr, nestled deep in the mountain range. Scattered woods and camps near the path were made secure by the Coldfells Army, yet most of the forces on patrol had been recalled to form the gathered Army of the Free Peoples.</p><p>Within the kitchen of the old tower was Lucibell, wearing an apron, hovering before an oven. Her red hair was braided in two tails, her bangs kept free from her sweaty brow, and no small amount of flour was dusted across her hands, ruddy cheeks, and apron. Baking in the oven were four nine star pies, their tops brown and slit so that steam might rise without boiling until the crust split. Beneath, a small fire smoldered to heat the brick oven. Most of the timber had turned to ashen coals made fiery hot by a large billow, and the stone walls behind the oven were black with soot and ash.</p><p>Lucibell thrust another log into the furnace beneath the oven, wiped her brow, and returned to gently stoke the fires. Nearby, her hobbit kin began a new song to the tune of another minstrel. A strange man from lands far to the east, beyond even Lake Town and resettled Dale, his name was Bolli. He wore a hat with a broad brim and feather, a lavender jerkin with silver buttons and an embroidered high collar, white shirt, and violet pants. His clothes were of fine quality, but stained and worn from the road and many travels. Regardless of his mood, he seemed to always smirk.</p><p>Lucibell disliked him.</p><p>The song was to an old East Farthing tune, given new life with Bolli's dramatic flares, but she had heard it many times. She had in mind to take up her flute, no ordinary hobbit instrument, and join the others. For the tune reminded her of the Brandywine, its waters cool and broad, and of reeds that rustled together in the breeze from the north in playful melody.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Lo! You may look as you like </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Across hill and plain walk on </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yet all inns are filled with idle talk </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 'Cause the best Shire ale is found in Stock! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Aye, not made with autumn rhye </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Aye, not a keg seen in the search </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Still the favorite beer for whom we all cheer… </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Is brewed in Golden Perch! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> To inn I go without a care </em>
</p><p>
  <em> By water blue it's over there! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cold may be the winter air </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yet Shirefolk all know how to bear. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> On west shore by the sweeping river </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Soon you'll be free of winter's shiver! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Soon you'll enjoy a seat with fluff </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bolli strode forward, interrupting the others, and gestured towards Lucibell while smirking wide.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Or another go with Luci's mu-! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Scowling, Lucibell threw a wet towel which struck the minstrel's face before he could finish the lyric. The tune went abruptly flat, and next she hurled a wooden spoon at his foolish, feathery hat. "Have you nothing better to do than fill the kitchen with your foul lyrics, cur?" she demanded.</p><p>Behind Bolli, several hobbits stared, expressions concerned, eyes widened. They exchanged awkward looks, and many of them cleared their throats and made excuses that lead to their departure. For hobbits are adept at abandoning their positions, especially in times of awkward conflict, and can easily rally for more song, ale, and dance elsewhere as to not be bothered.</p><p>"Why, fair hobbit-maid," Bolli said while pulling the towel free of his face as his cohort of hobbits made their excuses. It smelled of deer intestine and rotten cheese - which, according to a fair number of people, would be considered an improvement to the minstrel's common aroma. He strummed his lute again. "You wrong me! Come, let's away from this sweltering scullery to a room above."</p><p>"Yes, let's," Lucibell answered, "for there none could hear your screams," Bolli smirked, "as I bashed your lute over your head." She rolled her eyes and turned away. "Why have you not left? That is what you are wont to do, and there is nothing for you here."</p><p>"Ah, so charming." Bolli strummed again. "Alas, I cannot. For my kin has assigned me this post, and thus," he resumed the tune from before, "I must remain."</p><p>"You have attended more to the bottle than you have your post," spoke a quiet voice from around a corner. Alcarnarmo the Smith stood there, his arms crossed. He wore robes with a high collar, embroidered with true silver, the rest of his garb blue. His hair was gold, and a finely-wrought circlet rested atop his fair brow. Descended from a long line of master craftsmen, his labors had done much to aid both his kin and the free peoples of Middle-earth.</p><p>And as Lucibell, he disliked the traveling minstrel.</p><p>"That is no way to treat a guest," Bolli replied, not turning. He smiled and watched Lucibell retrieve a pie from the oven, his gaze traveling where it was not wanted. </p><p>"He speaks the truth," said another voice, this one behind Alcarnarmo. Neemiriel, clad in a long brown dress and hair twined together in thin braids, strode to stand behind the smith. She laughed softly, and her voice was as trickling water into a pool. </p><p>"Allow him good drink and mirth. What hosts are we to deny it?" Her features bore bronze coloring, and she stood much shorter than most of her kin. Neemiriel was of the woodland realm, yet she did not lack their wisdom and had grown accustomed to travel with all manner of peoples - dwarves, men, strange folk, and even, regardless of her better judgment, lewd minstrels.</p><p>"Ah, you see? I am not to be denied, fair maiden, but rather I am to be encouraged!" Bolli turned from Lucibell to Alcanarmo, smirking, though neither relented anything more than a scowl for him. Neemiriel alone seemed amused. "At last, ears and hearts that appreciate my talent for song and wit. </p><p>"All of this has left me famished, so I think now I shall indulge." Bolli reached forward to the pie, but Lucibell swatted his hand with a spoon, for she had much practice.</p><p>Neemiriel laughed softly again. "Yet a good guest knows to be patient with their hosts, and that all good things," she strode forward and took up both a loaf and wedge of cheese, "come in their own time." The spread was set before Bolli.</p><p>"Or in your case, perhaps never," Lucibell quipped. "Touch anything of mine again, and it won't be a spoon that chases you away."</p><p>Bolli glared at Lucibell, but turned an appreciative eye to Neemiriel. "And if I waited, would you come in good time?"</p><p>Neemiriel feigned surprise, her bright eyes widening, and shook her head with gentle grace, but Lucibell did not give her time enough to reply. "She has no interest in your vile offerings, either. Now go! Find another bottle, or better a wash basin to clean the reek from you."</p><p>"Were I to find a bath, would you join me?" Bolli replied.</p><p>Yet they were all of them quieted by Alcarnarmo who had moved to stand before a window that looked over the broad lawn below. "Quiet," he spoke softly, and all of them turned. </p><p>"There are shadows to the west, moving with great speed." His eyes narrowed upon the western lawn, and he searched them with both wisdom and keen sight. For he had seen many fields of battle, and he knew well the silent steps of ambush, and the raucous call of the hordes.</p><p>"What are they?" Lucibell wondered while turning her gaze to the window. Dark shapes rose from the west, beyond the great stone amidst Tirith Rhaw's lawn, though they were no mere shadows. Nor did they bear any resemblance to the free peoples who patrolled that way.  </p><p>Long moments passed in stillness, and both Bolli and Neemiriel joined them to gaze through the windows and into the uncertain distance. Yet, despite her kindness, Neemiriel inched farther from Bolli.</p><p>For the rumors were true - he smelled awful.</p><p>Over the hill, across the green lawn of Tirith Rhaw, rose the banner of Vae Victis borne by an armored orc. The frayed fabric was red, save for a golden eye and black silhouette of a sword set within a field of stained crimson. Their coming brought woe to those they had conquered, and any who learned of their vanquishment, for they were a tribe of terror. Few escaped the doom they wrought, for it was as a flood, and it chilled even the noblest of hearts.</p><p>"They are not great in number," said Alcarnarmo, his voice not without tremor, "nor pose a great threat to the tower." And that was so, for their band was few, yet the promise of bloodshed and dread clung to the air.</p><p>"A diversion?" asked Bolli.</p><p>"I think not." Alcarnarmo frowned. "Something flees before them…" his eyes widened, and he turned with sure speed. "Call to the stables and mount the cavalry!"</p><p>"Why?" Lucibell asked, staring. She chased after the smith as he sped up a stair and into a narrow corridor. "If they pose no threat, perhaps they come with terms?" Torch light gave way to sunlight as Alcarnarmo pushed open a door and emerged into a wide chamber. He rushed to the front gate.</p><p>"No," Alcarnarmo replied. "They give chase."</p><p>Neemiriel gasped as she caught sight of who ran before the woeful banner through an archere in the tower's wall. Tall and fair, his hair was <em> faen </em>, as beautiful as a lone shaft of light escaping through a dense forest canopy. His leather armor was bloodied, and though he had found the path to Tirith Rhaw, an orc had slowed his swift steps by cutting his hamstring. </p><p>"It is Edharon," she whispered. </p><p>Lucibell grit her teeth in dismay, for she had heard of the mighty hunter and his friend, Saeldris, who were among the renowned high elves - the mightiest of their kin in Middle-earth.</p><p>Without word, she took up her strange, flat flute and a discarded pan. She fled the chamber not long behind the smith and ran to the west with all haste. None ran with more speed as she while the rallying horn blew to forewarn the riders who loitered near the stables. </p><p>The riders took to their mounts, and hoofbeats soon thundered across the lawn, from the east, as the tower's cavalry made a swift charge across the lawn.</p><p> </p><p>As the others fled to lend aid to the fleeing hunter, a lone figure crept back into the kitchens of Tirith Rhaw. Moving skeptically, Bolli withdrew his brimmed hat and set it aside, then stroked back his slick, greased black hair while breathing deep the rich smells of lamb and onion. He whistled the hobbit drinking tune, feet occasionally twisting in a brief jig, and took up a knife from the counter. </p><p>"At long last," he said softly, satisfied he would not be interrupted as others ran across the lawn to save their own. He approached the table. "Alone. And not a moment too late," for the steam that rose from the pie had grown far less, and it was certainly ready to be served. </p><p>He cut into the pastry and watched the steam rise as its baked insides rushed to the marge, rich and creamy. He scooped them up onto a plate, and poured himself a goblet of fine wine, imported from the finest cellars of Dol Amroth.</p><p>Smiling, he then helped himself to the slice and choice tipple, eating slowly, and savored each embrace of wine to savory nine star pie.</p><p>It would have fed four men.</p><p> </p><p>Upon the lawn<b>,</b> a steed clad in hardened, cascading steel of gleaming white and gold sped across the thick grass bearing west. At the fore of the armed cavalry, it bore Tibulant, a Man of Rohan who wore mail and hardened leather armor, and behind both rider and steed raced a swift pony. Beyond them both, the stables of Tirith Rhaw had been unleashed, and their riders ran with purpose, pursuing the knight before them with spears held high and shields clasped and ready.</p><p>Upon Tibulant's pauldrons and cloak were a sigil of an armored horse head, in silhouette, painted green, for he was in service to Elfmar, Thane of Faldham, and one of the greatest riders among the Rohirrim - perhaps in all of Middle-earth, for such was his renown and skill in mounted combat.</p><p>He drew forth an auroch horn, rimmed with copper, and blew a mighty call across the lawn of Tirith Rhaw that was heard for many leagues. Before him, Lucibell heard it first, and she saw too the pony that galloped beside the knight. </p><p>The pony's name was Leaven, and Lucibell loved her.</p><p>To her side, Alcarnarmbo was aggrieved as he had no steed to mount, though many raced behind Tibulant and the pony that would bear her west. Running with the speed of the <em> eldar </em>, he shouted to his kinswoman, "Ride with all haste, Luci!"</p><p>As Tibulant rushed passed, Lucibell flung herself into Leaven's saddle, aided by Alcarnarmo's strong grasp, and kicked her horse's flanks sharply. "Ride!" she shouted.</p><p>And Leaven took heed, galloping to meet the terrifying banners of Vae Victis as they descended upon Edharon past the great boulder upon the lawn of Tirith Rhaw.</p><p>The reavers of Vae Victis wore patched armor, marred with red and black paint, and garb made of tattered red garments. Near the fore was Afluk, a reaver of immense infarmy and ire. He bore a great pike, and upon it, thrust through the shaft, was a skull and dangling bones that clattered together, as foul wind chimes might. He wore a golden mask of terrible visage, and upon his hands were clawed gauntlets of the cruelest make.</p><p>As Lucibell and Tibulant neared, Edharon stumbled upon the lawn, and Afluk charged past him and thrust his pike before the knight's steed to terrifying avail. The horse was pierced in the shoulder and reared in pain, rearing its rider free of the saddle, but the thick armor saved him the worst of the injury. </p><p>Tibulant rolled, and his bow released a quickshot. Thrice did arrows fire, and all found purchase in Afluk's armor.</p><p>Yet, it was for naught. Around him, the reavers of Vae Victis cackled with awful laughter as Afluk broke the shafts free with a swipe of his pike.</p><p>Charging with a battle cry, Lucibelle was swept from Leaven by the reavers with a gut punch, and Afluk's great pike buried itself deep in Edharon's back as he meant to rise. The full length of the weapon's point rent his mail and armor, and he was skewered while Afluk cackled and twisted the pike without mercy.</p><p>The elf's cry rang through the thunderous tumult of charging steeds. Behind him, the orcs howled with spite, their mirth vicious and bellowing.</p><p>"Put another hole in him!" cried one. "Let his blood wet the ground!"</p><p>"Quiet, scum! The tarks will be here soon," spat Afluk while bringing his pike around to face Tiblant. He sneered. "Form ranks!"</p><p>Yet the infamous reaver's command was halted, for there came a cry that showered pure light from the heavens, its voice wreathed in power incontestable. </p><p>"<em> Eärendil!" </em></p><p>The sterling shaft split thrice, and such was its purity that it struck all that was tainted. Two of the reavers were laid to waste beneath the shaft of light, and Afluk was grimly struck and stumbled backwards. He turned to see who had summoned the power of the dawn, and Lucibell, who held aloft a phial, and whose voice rung with power even the wise might envy, filled him with wrath.</p><p>"You…" rasped Afluk as the banner of Vae Victis behind him fell, its cruelty forgotten upon the grass. </p><p>Between them, Tibulant drew back an arrow and loosed it, and such was its strength that it pierced the mail and plate before Afluk's chest and neck, seeking his heart and finding its mark with no mercy. </p><p>"Return to the horror that birthed you," spat Tibulant as Afluk raised a gauntleted hand, cruel and menacing. The final arrow passed through the open socket of Afluk's mask, and the barb spilled forth blackened blood and made swift end to the reaver.</p><p>He did not rise, and those who remained were given swift justice by either Tibulant's bow, or the swords and spears of the cavalry who rode to join the fray shortly after.</p><p> </p><p>As lances and spears were flung into the enemies, impaling them to the lawn as the orcs shounted foul curses, Lucibell knelt before Edharon and turned him so that she might see his bloodied countenance. The sight of him nearly made her withdraw with grief, but she held Edharon fast as blood trickled from his lips and soiled his radiant hair and fair skin.</p><p>"Help-" he rasped, for though injured, the <em> eldar </em>can withstand great torment, and their spirits are loathe to depart for the halls of the dead.</p><p>"Do not spend your strength, friend," Lucibell replied. "I will see you to the healers, and all will be made well." She pressed her hand to his gaping wound to still the flow of blood, and her words lent courage and morale.</p><p>Edharon sighed. Though she spoke the truth, a great weight rested upon his chest, and the torment of it was deeper even than Afluk's wound. "Harken," he said lowly, "for what I say must ring forth from Tirith Rhaw and across these contested lands." He breathed deep, but blood sputtered from his lips.</p><p>Lucibell wiped his mouth clean, the elf's words unheeded. "A horse! We must make haste to Tirith Rhaw where his wound can be treated!"</p><p>Tibulant strode swiftly to Lucibell's side. "He may ride with me. I will see him to the healing rooms," spoke the Rohirric knight, his face grim.</p><p>"Listen!" said Edharon as the knight stooped to grasp him, but Tibulant's advance was halted by Alcarnarmo's firm hand, for he had at last arrived and dismounted to see the carnage left by the riders. </p><p>The knight turned to regard the smith. There was little love between them, for the Rohirrim mistrusted elves, especially those who hailed from villages closest to the woods, and their people had few dealings with the <em> eldar </em>, and no desire to be garrisoned alongside them.</p><p>"Do as he says, for not idle are the commands of the Noldorin," said Alcarnarmo, but the knight shrugged free from the smith's grasp, though it was as strong as an iron clamp.</p><p>"Do not think to command me again, <em> elf </em>, be you of noble heritage or not. Riders of the Mark answer only to their thane and Theoden King, and not to vagrants who slay even children who draw too close to darkened woods."</p><p>Lucibell watched as Alcarnarmo's bearing shifted, and she thought then that his ire would be great, for his kin were known for their wrath.</p><p>"Tol Ascarnen has fallen," said Edharon lowly as both man and elf stared at one another, the argument between them unsettled.</p><p>Those gathered turned to Edharon then, and they saw the grief that was deeper than the wound from whence blood rushed nigh as swift as the Hoarwell's falls. Yet, his words were unexpected, a cold plunge beneath water's surface.</p><p>He spoke on.</p><p>"The isle has been overrun, the garrison laid waste. Some of the free peoples are in chains, many more were put to the sword." Lucibell kept her hand pressed firmly to the wound as Edharon spoke. "They lie in wait for the approaching host to reinforce the castle, and they will surely break their lines. Would that I were able," Lucibell watched as he coughed more blood, and she wiped it from his lips. "I would have found the path to their camp and given them warning. Alas, I was found by these here and forced to flee."</p><p>At last, Edharon laid back, his strength spent. Sleep took him, though it was not restful, as his life hung by a thread.</p><p>Turning to Tibulant and Alcarnarmo, who faced west and stared across the river and into the shadow beyond it, Lucibell spoke softly, "Let us lay to rest our arguments and bring him to Tirith Rhaw."</p><p>"Go," Alcarnarmo spoke softly, and Tibulent pulled Edharon onto his horse, whose wound was far from fatal. They rode east with speed, to the tower, with Lucibell mere moments behind them. On the trail, she played her flute, its hollow melody ringing amongst the riders as though they traveled through long, abandoned tunnels. Many wondered from whence the instrument came, for it was no flute made by hobbit hands, though it bolstered their morale and will to ride hard.</p><p>Yet Alcarnarmo stayed, searching the western sky and horizon, but no wish or spell would grant him vision to what lay beyond the eastern fjord, nor what transpired on the island. For such was the power granted to the dread that even the mightiest of the <em> eldar </em>were met with clouded sight.</p><p>The riders who remained burned the fallen orcs, and the banner of Vae Victis was burnt to ash and cinder.</p><p> </p><p>Tirith Rhaw's darkened corridors were lit by candles, their flickering flames illuminating old stones and ruined bricks of the ancient fortress. Upon the walls were oil paintings, their pigments long faded or marred by soot and the toils of time and war.</p><p>Lucibell ascended the spiral stair, her steps echoing throughout the chamber. When at last she came to the landing of the second floor, she inhaled deeply and peered across the broken hallway. It was illuminated by moonlight, pale and cold, and smelled of damp and leather.</p><p>As she left the corridor, the old boards beneath her creaking with each step, a chill night breeze rustled her red hair. Steps swift, she made for another corridor just beyond, its narrow arch lit by a single torch that blew wildly in the gusts.</p><p>Inside, she saw Neemiriel and Alcarnarmo standing before a cot. Upon it was Edharon, features grim, eyes closed. In a corner sat Bolli, lute in hand, playing a soft tune.</p><p>"He will live," Alcarnarmo spoke without turning. "His body is nigh recovered from the attack. All he needs now is rest."</p><p>Neemiriel settled a hand on Alcarnarmo's shoulder and turned to Lucibell. "He will wake at daybreak. We may speak to him then." The hobbit gave her a grateful smile. </p><p>"And then?" asked Bolli, his strumming slow and consistent.</p><p>"And then… what?" Lucibell asked, her scowl sudden.</p><p>"The garrison has been marshaled," Alcarnarmo answered, his fierce gaze turning from Edharon and to the two minstrels. "We march at dawn for the west, and all who oppose us will be put to the sword." He rested a hand on Edharon. "Without mercy."</p><p>Lucibell looked down to the fallen elf, and worry overcame her. For his strength would be wane, and his wounds…</p><p>"Do not worry, fair lady," Bolli drawled, his tune changing again. "I will stay by his side, and play him a lovers' tune."</p><p>Lucibell did not like the thought of Bolli remaining, but Neemeriel laughed softly and gently rubbed her fallen comrade's hand. She soon left, and before Ithil rose to her peak in the sky, Bolli's pleasant melodies filled the room as the candles burned low, and he alone remained as the others found rest within the tower.</p><p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 9</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>ALL FATES ENTWINED</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hours had passed since the sun's setting, and the moon was large and nearly set to the west in the star-laden sky. The river's long beach, still and calm save for the currents that brushed against it, was a pale blue beneath the night's forlorn gleam, yet the sands were as lustrous as the stars above. Constellations were reflected across the dark waters, the trunks of trees rippled amidst them, each bough a dark imposition strewn with blazing light across their long, watery shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Near the southern beach lay Rastlan and Meow, separated by a small outcropping of stones. Their camp was cold, for they would risk neither fire nor tent and reveal themselves to the enemy. Nearby, atop the outcropping, Saeldris sat with her back against the stone, gaze set upon the waters, and the low waves reflected across her pale cheek and eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afternoon had been spent trekking south across the long leagues of the beach, evading scouting parties, and searching for prints along the rutted soil, grass, and sands of the island's coast. Yet the toil was in vain, for though they captured an orc scout, he knew little and taunted them until his demise, and Meow's tracking proved of little use.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By sunset, they huddled amidst the stones along the river's beach and bunked in silence through the long night, Meow and Rastlan soon finding rest while Saeldris gazed upon the gloom of night beneath the brilliance of Vadra's tapestry above. As the late watches approached, Saeldris saw Rastlan stir and sit. He brushed back his long hair, so often hid by a cowl, and drew his cloak close to wrap it tightly about himself. A cool breeze rushed across the breadth of the river, and it made him shiver in the gloom as his breath steamed into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watched him in silence, eyes riddled with the reflection of stars, as he roused himself. Yet he soon took notice of her, smirked, and sat forward until he was free of his bedding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Have you watched as I slept?" The burglar made a chastising sound, and mastered all the charm he was able. "How flattering. You needn't sit alone and stare," he patted his bedding, "you would not be the first I've kept warm through the bitter hours of night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris spoke quietly, so as to not awaken Meow, and reacted with no great amusement. "Do not be, and I would not join you. Had my words been as barbed as yours this afternoon," she turned from him and looked back to the Hoarwell and the many stars reflected across its rippling current, "I would not deign to rest beside the skulking elf</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A great pause followed as Saeldris turned away, and Rastlan strove to wade through his languid thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah…" Rastlan spoke at last. He turned from her as well, stricken by the cold truth of her words, and his daft expression withdrew as all thought of intimacy faded with haste. His words came swiftly, "I spoke in anger, and with no forethought… I am sorry, Saeldris. Forgive me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris did not answer immediately, for long years had brought her wisdom and reluctance to answer with much haste  - and so instead she observed the current, forlorn, as Rastlan stared ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearby, Meow snorted and tossed in her sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There are lessons in the land," spoke Saeldris after a time, "gifted to us long ago by the Valar, waiting to be revealed in the still moments of our lives, when we seem discarded in the dark...." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before her, the breeze across the Hoarwell shifted, bringing the scent of pine and firs, as the river's current bristled. The ripples became sheer, and starlight scattered into what seemed a firm road, its pavement radiant and white across the cold waters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris breathed deep, enjoying the cool air. She sat forward, gaze still lingering on the Hoarwell as the starry road faded. "I sense fate has drawn us hence to reveal some mystery that will lend us aid." Her eyes narrowed, "I can feel it in the chill of the air, taste it in the mist of the river. I see it in the paths of the stars."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan sat quietly, gaze turned from the rune-keeper to the river, yet he sensed naught but the chill, and the looming dread to the north of their camp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mitheithel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that was the name of the river once," spoke Saeldris, "named an age before your kin came to these lands, and long does it flow. From the Misty Mountains to the north, embracing their foothills as its gray waters flood to the south, and beneath the Last Bridge, until at last it joins with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bruinen</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Her weighted gaze turned to Rastlan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yet, always, it flows from one land to another, its current never ceasing. Never turning." Saeldris breathed deeply and sighed, and mist escaped her lips and into the chill night. "Tell me, what lesson do you think is revealed to us?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That a river flows from mountain to ravine before joining with another? Yes… I understand. As do most," Rastlan said with a chiding chuckle. "Alas, I remain unforgiven."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris did not seem amused. "I think there is a deeper meaning to be sought. Perhaps - the current may never return from whence it came, nor may it veer." Her hand motioned with a straight line. "Its course was decided long ago, its fate entwined with the mountains, valleys, forests, all that its waters flow through, for naught can escape its power. Whether by floods, the river's currents rending the land, or in draught, whence the valleys of Eriador wither, and all courses which lie in between."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Curiously, I am beginning to think we do not speak of rivers, but have descended once more into elven lecture." Rastlan tilted his head to the side. "A riddle game, is it? Should win, I hope you will find the warmth in your heart to allay me of what was said in anger." His hand touched his breast, and he was perhaps sincere, though the rune-keeper took little notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is no game." Saeldris turned from the Hoarwell at last and studied the burglar, though his smirk did little to calm her mood, for she had conceived to teach him an important lesson, one of greater importance than forgiveness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the dark, there seemed a gleam in Rastlan's eyes. "Your riddle, game or no, is simple. Our lives are as the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mitheithel</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for we cannot turn back the hour, and we move always to a larger way, whence our choices in life will have greater meaning to that which surrounds us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris nodded as she listened, and her wisened gaze remained upon Rastlan. "Yes, that is so." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan chuckled and shook his head. "I have told you before, I am no fool, and like many of my kin I was raised amongst elves. I learned your ways long ago, in the shadow of the scholar's table." He turned from her and shook his head, and a shadow of days long spent seemed to stretch across him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All of you conceive yourselves </span>
  <em>
    <span>so wise</span>
  </em>
  <span>, speaking in riddles as though you are greater than all others among you, revealing glimmers of truth's flame with a mere candle when it is as large and hot as a roaring blaze," he snorted, "but obscurity and metaphor do not herald wisdom, Saeldris." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris raised a brow, ignoring the burglar's taunt, "And what does, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dúnadan</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As quick as a blade of grass snapping back from a gust, Rastlan pulled a dagger free. The steel glinted in the pale moonlight as he turned it in his hand. "To know how and when to strike your enemy, when one blow dealt is equal to a horde's - that is the only wisdom worth cherishing in Middle-earth, for it is all that grants one life, another day to ride the current of fate, as you tell it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rune-keeper scoffed and turned away from the burglar. Her star-strewn gaze studied the river as Rastlan chuckled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think not? Tell me, how many wars have you seen? Tell me the tales of battles, the long years of bloodshed that have honed your skill, your will to live, and made certain your path through life. What tome has granted you more insight? What lay has given you breath? Tell me truly, is the worth of a library a measure to the steel that so swiftly fells your foes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"War does not make one wise, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dúnadan.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Saeldris sighed and did not look back to him, her gaze seeking the calming nighttime waters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And yet the greatest of your kin knew it as the only truth, for was not King Thingol wise and swift to battle? Was it not Fëanor, greatest of the Lords of the West, his spirit brighter than the forge, who marsheled a host that smote the gates of Angband and did what the Valar could not for an age hence?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris sat in silence, galled, and imagined the grey waters of the river flooding loudly through a gorge far to the south, splattered against smooth stone and splintering the roots of the mightiest trees upon its bank. She wondered then after the course her own feet tread, the words she had spoken, what would become of her, and of their sundered fellowship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, in time, she felt naught but anger, for the burglar's words harkened a truth - what library gave more than years upon the field of battle?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They were both great in might and splendor, as were the many lords of my kin from ages past, for they were adorned in valour long unseen in these lands," spoke Saeldris at last, "yet they brandished wisdom as a weapon, as they were wont, cruel and laden with lust for what was not theirs to hold." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon the river's surface, a figure clad in robes of red and black, head adorned with a circlet of gold inlaid with the finest gems, was wrought before her. He was a Lord of the West, and rightful king of his people from an age long ao. Within his grasp were three jewels, each burdened with light unseen for long ages of Middle-earth. Yet within them was a doom unspoken and unseen in their crafting, and as their light spread it consumed all, even the stars, until there was naught by fiery radiance… and darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After, Saeldris breathed deeply and saw herself upon the river, regaled in starlight and a white gown that rippled as the river beneath her. The reflection smiled, yet she saw still the lingering light from the gems, some small part of it cast 'round them from the light of the heavens above. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For wisdom is a guide," she continued at last, "and I fear now we sail upon the river without its rudder.mWe are…" Saeldris paused, hesitant and unsure, and stared at the waters while Rastlan listened. "We are now but three, and I fear I shall not see Edharon for many long years. Though I may yet sail west, and rejoin my kin, he will have known the cold sting of death, and naught will be the same after he emerges from the halls of the fallen." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned back to the burglar. "You claim to have wisdom, so tell me - do you know why it is he remains in these lands? Do you know why Meow follows you to battle? Or I?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do not care what purpose guides Edharon's bow, nor what path keep you and Meow by my side," answered Rastlan swiftly, and Saeldris sighed deeply after, smitten by his cold words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For his family, so that they might have no cause to fear." Saeldris looked back to the Hoarwell, her spirit worn. "Meow is loyal to her friends, and to retribution for those who have been slain." Saeldris shook her head. "Can you not see their fates are entwined with yours, and yours with theirs, as the hills and valleys beside the banks of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mitheithil</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Would that you had stayed in the shadow of the scholar's table longer, before the master-in-arms handed you a dagger, for if the greatest of warriors, even the lords of my kin you admire so, understood the course of the river… much in Middle-earth would not be in dismay, and our lands and people would not suffer." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside her, Rastlan sat in silence, expression grim. The burglar sheathed his blade, the motion swift, and she knew not where it disappeared. For a moment, she felt a kindling of hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am sorry, Saeldris… Though it matters not who is at my side, so long as the servants of the Enemy know the torment of my people." Rastlan turned to her, grey eyes distant and stern. "And suffer by my hand. Naught was given to me, not even my dagger - only taken, and so I take in return. All that I may, so they may know the sting of loss, and I will revel in the torment of my enemies as their designs are ruinedt."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris shook her head, but her gaze did not waver from his. "By the end, I hope you see the truth." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan, at last, turned away with a sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is my watch. Rest. Day approaches, and perhaps then you will at last forgive my anger. For though it may not seem it, I care for this land and its people with all my heart."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris heard no deception in his words, yet she doubted Rastlan's promise as he stood, cloak still wrapped tight, and knelt by the rocks to watch their camp. She stood from her post and moved to lay upon his abandoned bedding, but her eyes did not close, for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>eldar</span>
  </em>
  <span> need not rest. Instead, her gaze turned to the sky, and there she was at ease amidst the blanket of night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before them, the Hoarwell flowed southwest, into Hithlad, forking before the small village of Hoarhollow. Creek and river joined again to the south of the isle, and ever across the grey waters was the reflection of Varda's shawl and garment, glimmering with radiance.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 10</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>ANOTHER SHORTCUT TO MUSHROOMS</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A norbog rummaged loudly in the sands of Tol Ascarnen's northern beach, searching for small crawdads or critters to eat before the waters rose and swept them from the sands and into the current of the river's gorge ere nightfall. Its greedy mandibles dug without mercy, swiftly finding the burrows of its prey where it might pluck them free and crush their shells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind the norbog was a small eddy within the Hoarwell, its passage bent along the northern beach of the isle. Above the beach were the northern falls, as cold as ice, which fell from a great cliff before the northern edge of the isle and crashed into the currents of the gorge. The river's clamour echoed through the valley, yet the norbogs upon the shore were accustomed to it, as they were with many dangers. Yet, there was at least one thing they were not accustomed to, for in the history of the Ettenmoors no fool, not even Ilthalion Sure-foot, had attempted it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though in that hour, not one, but two, fools did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the north came a great splash, and water was sprayed onto the beach and feasting norbogs who swiftly turned, annoyed, to seek its source. The first was followed by a second, which was much larger, and flushed the beach with a large wave from whence the norbogs retreated from in haste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, the drenched form of a man, followed soon by another, rose to the surface of the river. Both floated upon the churning current, unmoving, and the Hoarwell began to take them east. Before rounding a bend, one of the men, bearded and clothed for winter, rose with a great gasp, thrashed in the swift water as it carried him down river, and at last dragged himself and his companion free of the current with slow, labored strokes and steps. There he collapsed on the beach, grasping spear, javelin, and shield, though his friend did not move save to roll to his side and spew water from his mouth with several heaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There the two men lay, upon the shores of the Hoarwell, until the setting of the sun. Around them, the norbogs chittered loudly, and several approached, but the fools were kept safe by a third figure who joined them ere the light left the gorge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cold and wet, his clothes still soaked from the Hoarwell's biting cold, Samulson awoke upon the northern beach in near darkness. Before him was a small fire, the flames bright and hot, and they were what seemed the sole comfort left in all of Middle-earth. For his limbs seemed frozen, and his body would not stop shivering. The fire would easily turn the winter chill aside were he in dry clothes, yet, as it was, he felt as though he might perish beneath the cruel cold, and even death seemed a warm embrace compared to his frozen garb. Beside him, in the dark of night, he saw Falcon resting beneath a thin dry blanket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he tried, Samulson could not reason how he had come before a fire, or how night had come upon them. Beneath him, he felt sand shift, and that his side and back were sore with bruises. His feeble mind yearned to remember more, but such was his torment that he crept only closer to the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From behind, he heard someone stir.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As swift as he could, Samulson drew a dagger from his belt and threw free a coat that had been laid across him, but he was slow, bruised, and tired. As he turned, nigh as listless as fallen timber is to rot, a lone figure stepped to the side. Darkened by the night, he felt his vision fading, his mind weary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lay still," spoke a soft voice, and the figure descended upon him. "Your leap into river was foolhardy, and cold has taken your strength. Lay still, and tomorrow it will be returned with haste." As the figure drew closer, Samulson smelled wildflowers and perfume, and it seemed familiar to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Black Appendage," he muttered, but the words would not come easily. "They have… returned. We must…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand, warm and soft, rested against Samulson's brow, and through the night's gloom he saw fair features, made more attractive in the firelight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Rest."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson grew still, and he knew nothing but sleep until the long, cold night's end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The morning light was delayed in the river's gorge, for to the east was a high precipice that stood well above the banks of the river, and beyond it rolling hills and a thick cove of trees. The castle's walls cast dark shade upon the shore, often until midday, though the falls reflected pale, beautiful light across the current of the river and northern walls of Tol Ascarnen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Near the bank was a small camp, the fire still lit from the night. Spitted across the flames was a single sausage surrounded by crawdads, fish, and a pair of large mushrooms that dripped grease down onto the coals and cast a marvelous aroma through the camp. A fair distance from the fire, a pile of orcs, slain by sword and shield, rested beside an outcropping of rocks beneath the castle's walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resting beside the fire, wrapped in dry, spare blankets and travel-soiled clothes, were Falcon and Samulson, though the Beorning had awoken and sat as close to the fire as he dared so that his clothes might dry. Beside him, Samulson stirred, and Falcon gently struck his friend's arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Rise, you scrawny oaf. Morning has all but passed," Falcon grumbled, "though we are better to have slept through it, for I ache from head to foot." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson rose slowly, clothes still wet, though he was free from the night's chill at last. Once sitting, he looked to the fire and food, and then to his friend. "You did all of this?" His brow creased as he sought to learn the truth. "In the night, I saw… someone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm. Aye. Someone," the beorning replied as he lifted the skewer from the fire and set half before Samulson, his smile betraying hidden amusement. "Eat, before </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> returns. Her instructions were grave, and I fear what may become of me should we fail to follow them." Falcon laughed joyfully, though Samulson knew not why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their meal's first course lasted less time than Samulson would have liked, for as he tore the shell from a crawdad a woman, Iselja, walked along the beach. Clothed in a rough-spun dress and fur cloak, and carrying another string of fish from the river and a handful of mushrooms, her smile was as alluring as the spitted meal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good morn'," said the minstrel as she knelt by the fireside. Her hand touched the brow and cheek of both men before gathering her catch and skewering it swiftly across a wooden rod. Hailing from far to the north, Iselja was a minstrel and healer of some renown. Her hair was long, braided, and blonde with far darker roots, features as fair as a harvest moon. As she strung the fish, she hummed softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had not known one another long, but since traveling far to the icy banks to the north Samulson had been smitten with her, though she teased him often. The ways of the northerners are strange to those who hail from the south, and the same is said among those who hail from the north, and the long war had made any courtship… difficult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iselja gave Samulson a glance that made him smile, then turned from him as his cheeks flushed red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, for…" Samulson struggled to find the words, and Falcon looked between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For starting fire? Cook? Saving life?" Iselja laughed softly and sat back as the new catch began to roast, and the savoury aroma was a welcome distraction. "You choose, but eat first. Strength come back soon, then maybe you not speak like lost child."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iselja reached over and patted Samulson's cheek, and Falcon barked a laugh after taking a large bite of fish. Leaning closer, Falcon whispered what he aught not to have and laughed before returning to his food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson glared, though he did not speak again until finishing the second skewer, for he was famished, as the small party ate in silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When at last their breakfast was picked clean, the three friends cleaned their camp and made ready to depart. Samulson turned to the pile of orc corpses that had been left upon the rocks in the distance, and he gestured to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iselja wrapped tight her sword belt and frowned upon the corpse pile. "Many come, bearing map, travel this way from hill to west. I think this hidden path, for them travel with ease, like fish in deep water." She grinned and slung her shield across her back. "I kill all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A map?" Falcon stepped forward and looked across the sands. Orc prints were strewn across them, but the path was difficult to follow. "I have heard rumors of their maps… our foes are swift to travel, then. We should leave this place."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I agree," Samulson said lowly, for he did not want his voice to carry across the gorge whence it might be heard. Soon after, their packs slung over their shoulders and camp made cold, the companions walked east, following the shore to its bend. There they rested briefly, and Iselja spoke to Samulson, telling him he slept beautifully. Samulson sat in dismay as Falcon laughed, though Iselja spoke more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My husband must pass the trails of ice, and this one would have died after quick bath!" she remarked regarding their plunge, and Falcon was filled with mirth, for he found the banter greatly amusement. Though Iselja scowled at him, saying, "You do no better," and his laughter was cut short.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the sun at last rose above the precipice and cove of trees to the east, the river gorge was bathed in warm, morning light. Samulson breathed deep the damp air, for the warmth was welcome, and soon felt his clothes, hair, and beard beginning to dry. Beside him, his companions turned to the sun, too, and their morale was lifted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet the pause in their travel did not last, for from the south came the bellowing of a strange horn, far in the distance, and it was met by another. The second was much closer, and familiar, for the clear ringing of a captain's horn was well known to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A mustering horn…" spoke Falcon, and he was heartened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aye. Not idly is the rally horn blown, for it draws allies and ire from greater evil than mere orcs." Samulson turned to his friends. "Let us be swift and aid the call! Lest we tarry, and the battle is ended, and all our travels and pain are for naught."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As swift as a summer breeze they met the hill to the south and sprinted to its zenith, and just beyond, to the east, was a great host of free peoples gathered before the ruins of Tol Ascarnen. The banners of many kinships blew wildly in gusts from the east, and hails of arrows descended upon the eastern wall of the castle. Above, the tattered remnants of Gramsfoot's arms fluttered, and beneath them were lines of black arrows whose strong pulls returned the ire of the archers beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, Samulson and Falcon had come to Tol Ascarnen, yet their mission had failed. For the armies had met, and there would be no retreat ere the battle was joined.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 11</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>EYES OF THE PAST</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dawn had come and passed over the steep slopes to the east of Tirith Rhaw, eventually bathing the ruined fortresses' lawn in beams of gold and red that turned back the long shadows of night. Upon the road before the lawn, near a hollow above the banks of the Hoarwell, long lines of cavalry and footsoldiers traveled east with steady pace. Not clad in uniform, their raiment as varied as autumn leaves upon the wind, the bannermen and their charges of the scattered host were great in number and idle save for their march.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afternoon's cold winds had not yet begun, yet near the river's edge the air was still cool and damp. The sloping land around them was thick with grass, and nearby was a cove of firs and pines that overlooked the river to its east. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their march would eventually turn south to follow the old road to the Crossroads, beneath the trees, a mere distance from a steep decline above the banks of the river. Past the small cliff and sandy beaches was an ancient bridge, its edifices long faded and columns crumbled. Raised proudly in the bridge's center was the banner of Gramsfoot, as red as blood, and beyond it, they would rejoin the road that lead to the Crossroads, where the Army of the Free Peoples had joined and made camp near the ruins of the old Elf Camp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the road was long, their speed in such great number laborious, and they would not make the camp until the sun had drawn much closer to the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon the path, Lucibell sat atop her pony and looked east, to the river, where a grave darkness lingered still. Tol Ascarnen was wreathed in shadow, the Gift of the Eye it was named, a dark menace that rose above great hordes of evil in the world, especially those who did the enemy's bidding. She scowled, but movement soon drew her gaze away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside her, Edharon stirred in his saddle. His wounds had healed swiftly, as Alcarnarmo said they would, and he needed no rest as they traveled. Instead, he merely stared forward, or else slumped in his saddle and spoke little. Yet as they followed the bank, she saw he sat tall, his gaze sharp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good morning," Lucibell said, her smile soft and reassuring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it?" the elf asked. His hair, radiant and white, was brushed from his features while he turned slowly to see the woods, their road, the river… and the darkness beyond. "Do you mean its nature is good, that it is pleasant, or that you wish it were good?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell blinked, uncertain what the question meant. "I…" she looked from the elf to their path. "It is merely a greeting. 'Good morning,' we say to, well, one… another."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elf stared at her, but his gaze seemed fixed on something well beyond what lay before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose," Lucibell continued, her voice stammering slightly, "it is said regardless of whether the morning is good or not." She winced slightly during the realization and felt foolish, yet she was uncertain why, for the elf had asked the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For what seemed a slow day's march, Edharon watched her, perhaps waiting, but she felt his staring very rude, and so she began to turn away and looked to the road. As she did, his soft voice lightly said, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Galu mellon, a gin hannon."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I beg your pardon?" Lucibell said, for she had little knowledge of elves and their languages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is a blessing is it not?" Edharon replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do not…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'Good morning,' you say. You wish those around you a pleasant morning, regardless of whether it will be," he nodded to the east, and through the trees and over the river the foreboding shadow yet lingered, "or not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I had not thought of it that way," Lucibell said quietly while glancing to and from the shadow. "Hm. I suppose it is a blessing, isn't it? And what did you say?" she added, a seed of doubt in her heart, for though she had been around elves often, she occasionally mistrusted them, as their reputation in the Shire was dubious and troublesome. For good reason, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pay no mind to the business of outside folk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, her father had taught her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>or their business'll become yours, and that's no good to anybody.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Galu mellon</span>
  </em>
  <span>," repeated Edharon. "Blessings friend.' </span>
  <em>
    <span>A gin hannon,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> he smiled, "and thank you,' for even in the darkest years, we too cling to a hope."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh…" Lucibell smiled, but she saw then that a shadow seemed to cling to the eff's features, and she glimpsed a pain greater than any wound. "Well, thank you, too." She turned and looked to the road, not sure of what to say next, and instead stammered, "we were not certain you would see the dawn, but you recover swiftly. I am glad for it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would that I had not, there would be no great loss. My spirit would have short rest, and then I would know the embrace of my wife and daughter. Though," Edharon shook his head, "I would not like to be parted from my son for so great a time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have a family?" Bewildered, Lucibell stared at the elf. He seemed… young. Even among his kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes. Both my wife and daughter left Middle-earth's western shores…" he paused, pale eyes searching, "many, many years ago. My son was of an age to choose, and so I cared for him. Yet I long for the day, the hour, when we may yet be reunited." His head lowered, and Lucibell's heart was filled with great sadness. "Do you have family?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell began to answer, but she was so stricken that her heart began to beat swiftly, and words would not come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Why would you leave, Luci?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell remembered standing in her home, Wren across the table, her arms folded and expression sour. On the table were her pack, a loaf of bread, pans, a map, her lute, and a flagon. The late afternoon sun was bright and passed through the circular window of their kitchen. Outside, a myriad of flowers bloomed across their garden beds, and beyond their fence and the western road to Stock were the barn and granary. Ted, the farmer across the path, had recently painted their front door a lovely shade of blue, and Lucibell had rethatched their roof - as they did not live in a proper hobbit hole, but rather a house, the grass and thatch atop their roof needed care every season. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Wren despised doing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lots of folks are going, Wren." Lucibell's voice sounded hollow. With Wren, her courage always seemed shallow, like a spring pool in late afternoon. "Men, dwarves, elves…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fellowship of dwarves and men had come to the Brandywine's western shore in search of supplies, and several bounders had enlisted in the Army of Free Peoples. Hunters, guardians, and wardens from across the Shire had swiftly followed, and minstrels tagged behind in hopes to one day tell their tales from the war to the east, in a land called the Trollshaws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So? Let them. Your place is here, Luci. With your family, with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me." </span>
  </em>
  <span> Wren's hair was long, thick, and a deep brown. Like her eyes, they were as dark as a maple's bark at dusk. Her skin was brown, and she and Lucibell could not be more different, yet they loved one another, and their daughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And the others who fight? What of their families? They sacrifice no less than I." Lucibell reached for her pack, but Wren stopped her. Hand held firm, dark eyes filled with pain and anger, Lucibell had never seen her so angry. "Let go, Wren."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No?" Lucibell relaxed and leaned forward. Her red hair was braided and pulled back into two tails, ready for travel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am not letting you go. It is not our quarrel, it is a war brought by greedy men and dwarves, and elves who sit in their palaces of gold and silver and refuse to lend a hand! Let others fight their wars, Luci. We had no part in their making." Her expression had grown fierce, but it softened as she took a step forward and wrapped an arm around her wife. "You belong here. Your place is in Stock, with us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words wrung with truth in her chest, for the Shire was a land apart, and the faults of others were not theirs. And yet… war would come. It seemed as certain as the autumn rains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell smiled as she watched her wife, Wren's expression so fierce it may have turned a goblin away in fear. She knew then her answer: "I love you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wren drew back, and her grip became slack. "I- I love you, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you, I love you and little Lily so much that the thought of losing either of you fills me with dread. A dread so terrible, I'm overcome with a fright that wakes me in the foredawn, it haunts me every night, every day as I see fellowships gathering, and when I look to the east I sometimes see dark banners across the Brandywine." Lucibell reached forward and stroked her wife's shoulder. "War is coming, Wren. War so terrible, we will never know its end should the lands of others fall… our fields will brown, the skies will darken, and Lily will not know the meaning of peace."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell breathed deeply, and before her Wren took a step back as the truth came upon her with a cold sweat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is why I must go."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beside her, the elf had turned his attention north, his question perhaps forgotten. Nearby, Bolli sang a soft tune and played his lute amongst the lines of footsoldiers, but Lucibell could not make out the words, and the longer the other minstrel played, the more she thought his lyrics were spoken not in the common tongue, yet there was still a rhyme and melody to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet his soft song was akin to an interlude as Edharon began to speak, and Lucibell felt as though she had entered a new land altogether. An old place, the air thick with campfire smoke, surrounded by wilderness unworked by the hands of any free folk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Thî edain echuianner a lastanner an Felagund sui gannant a linnant</span>
  </em>
  <span>," spoke the elf as he listened to Bolli's tune in the distance, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>a nauthanner bain i te vi ôl vain, na i lû di cenn i mellyn în ti cuiw eithro ar ten; ach ti garfanner û a vennir ir Felagund gannant,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" he sighed deeply, and Lucibell thought the verse was as beautiful as any sunrise or waterfall she had ever seen, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>an i vainas o i 'ling a i valan o i 'lîr.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a brief silence, and Lucibell lost the smell of the campfire, and the wilderness seemed far less, as the words' spell left her. "That is beautiful… are they lyrics from the song?" Lucibell asked, glad for the change of topic. Ahead, the path turned south.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon smiled patiently. "Alas, nay - they are far older than the minstrel's melody."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh." Lucibell rode on, still listening. "Where… are they from?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elf was silent for a time, as he had been before, and seemed to stare into the distance as they rode. The breeze from the Hoarwell was a comfort in the mid-morning's warmth, and Bolli's melody continued in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'tis a tale of how men came to the west and were greeted with song by Finrod Felagund, a great king of elder days - would that I could honor his memory in his own tongue, but it has long been forsaken in these lands." Edharon turned to Lucibell. "It is one tale among many in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pennas Silveril,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" he smiled when he saw no recognition in Lucibell's features, "or the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quenta Silmarillion</span>
  </em>
  <span>, its proper name from long ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tale of the Silmarils.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell had heard of the ancient story, though knew little of it, for the Shire lacked great amounts of lore, and none of her kin could be counted as lore-masters or scholars of much renown. Yet, she remembered an old tale of a great king who rode against ancient evil, and precious jewels that had been stolen, harrowing darkness, and the greatest heroism. But most of all, she recalled a soft tune, and black hair, curly and thick, spread across her lap…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"To North there lay the Land of Dread</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>whence only evil pathways led…"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell sat upon their bed, lute resting across her legs. Along her lap, Wren lay curled, eyes closed, her hair spread wild across the eiderdown and her wife's legs and lap. She breathed slowly. Beside them, candles lit the small bedroom, which was filled with Lucibell's wondrous, ancient song, though it was a mere verse among hundreds sung once to her by a wanderer named Halros.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>To South the wide earth unexplored</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To West the ancient Ocean roared,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unsailed and shorless, wide and wild,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To East in peaks of blue were piled…</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Luci."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beneath her, Wren stirred. Lucibell's lute continued to play as she looked down, and large, brown eyes gazed into hers. Whence had come such fire and anger was then defeated, for in her heart Wren had glimpsed the truth, and it pained Lucibell to see her so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promise me you will return."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell continued to strum. She looked away, towards the open window. Through it, a cool winter breeze came, but the low stirrings of their fire kept the cold, damp Brandywine breeze at bay. Wren stirred, and she laid her head down as Lucibell's silence lingered. She felt her begin to sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't want to do this alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell sniffed and looked down to the strings of her lute. "Nor do I."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You have heard of it?" Edharon asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibelle blinked, stricken from the memory, and nodded. "Yes. Sorry, I- yes. But I do not know the old tales. I know… a few verses. A wanderer, a man named Halros sung them to us once when he passed through Stock. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lay of Helethien?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon smiled again. "Luthien, yes. A song of great length, but beautiful in the telling."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It was. I sung it to Lily, my daughter, and my wife. She fell in love with it." Lucibell sighed to think of the memory of them, firelight dancing across their faces, little Lily delighted by the lute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then you do have a family," Edharon said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, I do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You must miss them fiercely," he turned and watched Lucibell's head lower, "and long for the road that shall deliver you home with haste." The elf smiled. "It is not too late to seek the road west. I dwell upon it, thinking of naught else, in the late watches when all is moonlit dark and the world seems faded to shadowed despair."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell rode in silence, staring, and it seemed to her that the elf's peering was not so strange. For she was lost, lost - forever lost on the road east, whence never turned back around, even after all they had done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"None would find fault in it. After all, have you not done enough?" Edharon watched the path. "Do you not deserve your rest?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Momma? When will you be home?" asked little Lily. She stood just outside the blue door of their house, her tangled black hair rustling in the warm morning breeze. Lily had Wren's hair and deep, beautiful brown eyes, but her skin was fairer by a faint shade and dotted with dozens of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Just like Lucibell's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know, little flower," Lucibell replied. She held her lute in one hand, and upon her back was a pack filled to the brim. The dagger she carried was hardly more than a kitchen knife, and her shield were boards from Farmer Ted's barn that had been nailed together and lashed with rope. Behind her, upon the road, stood four dwarves, all clad in mail and bearing axes of fine make, and a tall man who carried a walking stick and several tomes in satchels upon his belt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But where are you going?" asked Lily. Behind her, Wren bit her lip and turned away, for the parting was hard for her to bear, and a great heaviness lingered upon her heart at the thought of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"East, little flower. Across wide lands, the same paths that Mr. Bilbo walked. Upon the road, and then to the shadow of the great mountains." Lucibell smiled, but Lily gasped. She was too young to remember the old hobbit's parting, Lucibelle was a girl herself, but tales of it were spoken across the Shire still within its inns, taverns, and many festivals surrounding the party tree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But momma, he fought a dragon!" Lily shouted. Before her, on the road to Stock, the dwarves chuckled with mirth and stroked their beards. Even among the dwarves of Ered Luin, the tale of Bilbo Baggins was well known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes he did, little flower." Lucibell lowered her head and pulled her daughter into a warm embrace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would be scared to go on an adventure like Mr. Bilbo's," Lily said while wrapping her little arms tight around her mother. "Are you scared too, momma?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," Lucibell said lowly. "Momma is very scared, flower." She looked up, and Wren had covered her mouth and begun to sob. Beckoning, she sought to take Lily, and Lucibell stood and embraced them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm scared, but I'm also sad," said Lily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell me why you're sad," Luci asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because momma, we won't ever hear your songs, and I'm going to miss them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling, tears rolled down Lucibell's cheeks, and despite the great pang of misery in her heart, she laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why are you crying, momma?" asked Lily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because I am going to miss playing for you too, little flower," said Lucibell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wren looked from her wife to daughter and quietly said, through sad laughter, "Because your mother won't be here to thatch the roof." Each laughed, though there was not much mirth between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thought occurred to Lucibell as Wren wiped her cheeks. She looked down to her lute, the polish on its body long faded and worn, gouged from the occasional scrape, and its saddle askew. With a sigh, she handed the lute carefully to her daughter, still smiling, and watched as her face brightened. "Here. Play it everyday for your mother, and when I come home…" she wiped her tears, "you can play for us both."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, momma. I will," said Lily, expression bright with happiness as she took the instrument.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wren cupped Lucibell's cheek, and she pulled her into a shallow kiss that did not last near as long as she would have liked, but long enough that she would remember it always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come back to us," Wren said quietly, and little Lily wrapped her arms around both of them and embraced her mothers tightly, with all her strength. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There they stayed, Lucibell desiring to never leave, until at last she did. "I love you momma," said Lily, and Lucibell wept to see her home growing smaller and smaller, and those she loved waving to her at even a wide distance as they walked east with a steady pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once upon the road, one of the dwarves, his hair graying and armor of much finer make than the others, turned to Lucibell and smiled. "I've a family. My boy, he's no taller than a cave claw. And my daughter, her beard is as long as Durin's!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell had not heard him, for turning her thoughts away from such a parting was difficult, and she was of mind to run back to them, as her courage was swiftly waning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rested his gauntleted hand on Lucibelle's shoulder, "Eh, aye. Aye. The first journey, aye, that is the hardest, always. But you'll see 'em soon enough, sure as the raven flies east."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell wiped her eyes free of tears, and the dwarf patted her shoulder gently. "I've seen roads as far east as Erebor, and gates as far south as Minas Tirith, had more adventures than I could count, and drunk more ale than could fill the Brandywine. Don't ye worry, we'll keep ye safe, and before the spring's dews end ye'll be back home. Or else swept away with the adventurer's life, hah!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, master dwarf…" said Lucibell, for his words were a comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Here, lass." The dwarf pulled a flute from a bag on his hip. It was fatter than most, the top of its body shaved down so that it was no longer round, but rather more akin to a plank. Upon it were runes, but Lucibell could not read them. "Belonged to my brother, ere he ventured to Moria. Decided to take up the bagpipes… thought of him playin' in those mines, with all those echoes, makes my beard wither!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell smirked and almost laughed as she took hold of the instrument. It was handmade, and beautiful. "Thank you, master dwarf." She looked up at him. "I don't know how to repay you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please, call me Bimlorin. And ye've no need! For I am at your service," he swept his arm before him and bowed low, "and… your family's!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dwarven flute rested in her hands, its polish unfaded, keys as smooth as the day Bimlorin had given it to her. As they rode on, Lucibell realized she had never repaid the old dwarf, and he had never asked for service of any kind, save that she play it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Were I to leave now, would it all be for naught?" Lucibell turned to Edharon, expression fierce. She shifted in her saddle as they emerged from the woods and onto the road. Before them, through the trees, was the south bridge of Tol Ascarnen. "All I have sacrificed, a waste, only to be forgotten in the final forging of the end?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon turned from Lucibell. "I could not speak with certainty, but I do not blame those who traveled west to escape these lands, for they are rife with torment. Alas for those who never see home again." He nodded to the bridge, to which they had at last come during their slow ride along the ridge of the Hoarwell's bank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afixed atop the closest pillar were pikes, and skewered upon them were heads of men, elves, and hobbits. Below, stripped, nailed, and spread were the quartered remains of a man, his skin bare and ashen and all but picked clean by crows. Carved into his chest was the image of the Eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Were they able, would they choose another fate, one far away from here, in homes with mirth, love, and good earth?" Edharon regarded the remains of the fallen as the host halted, and many stared, overcome by the horror of it. Others wept, for they recognized the slain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell turned from the gruesome arrangement, and she thought of little Lily and Wren. Oh, how she missed them. To see her daughter's smile, to feel her wife's warm embrace. To bake in their own kitchen again, to see their hands muddied in their garden…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would she know those feelings again? Before such evil, it seemed a forgotten dream, an unseen shadow in afternoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you?" Lucibell asked suddenly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Even if it meant being with your family forever, across the sea?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would not abandon these lands to torment, nor risk the shadow to spread and my family come to harm," the elf replied. "Naught would keep me from seeing them safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nor would I." Lucibell turned her pony, and as a company saw to the mangled remains, the rest ventured on to the west, until the banners of Middle-earth, great tents, campfire smoke, and the ringing of song and talk rose above the sounds of the wilderness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And though she longed for home, Lucibell knew then that she could not flee from the battle on the horizon, nor turn away so long as evil stirred in the east, for she would never risk losing the peace in the Shire, nor her family's safety. Yet her thoughts were interrupted, for she heard a strange horn to the north, and it rang across the forest without yielding. Soon after, she heard the rough gallop of a horse upon the road.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rider, an elf in weathered robes, sped swiftly east upon the road. His horse, adorned in blue and white raiment and bearing a gold and white banner, slowed while Edharon hailed the horseman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What news, </span>
  <em>
    <span>randir?</span>
  </em>
  <span>" bid the hunter, and before him the rider slowed and revealed himself by drawing back his hood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Suilad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ach daro.</span>
  </em>
  <span> What host is this?" asked Glolas, for he was the rider, yet he spoke swiftly on, "It matters not, for the assembled army has forded the Hoarwell in secret, beneath the bridge, and begun its march upon Tol Ascarnen!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon's brow rose. "Then why, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mellon</span>
  </em>
  <span>, are you here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glolas stammered, but all could guess the reason - he had been away in the woods, enjoying the Southfarthing leaf, for he adored it, and missed the mustering horn of the gathered army. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edharon smiled, perhaps amused. If she were truthful, Lucibell would not have minded a well-stuffed pipe, but her leaf pouch had long been empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps she would find Glolas later and see if he had a mind to share.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It matters not, </span>
  <em>
    <span>randir</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We bring tidings: Tol Ascarnen has fallen to shadow, though none would know it, for it rests within the gift of the Eye. We come with all we dared marshal from the garrison of Tirith Rhaw, and a warning to halt the reinforcements."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is ill news, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mellon</span>
  </em>
  <span>…" Glolas said. "I fear there is no stopping the host. See to the north, the column's fore has long since passed the bridge's foundation."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glolas spoke the truth, for though the shadow was dense Lucibell could just see beyond the river's far bank, and upon it moved a column four soldiers wide, unseen before due to the cover of the bridge and the Hoarwell's darkened waters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then our errand failed, and we only have one choice," Lucibell said, morale lowered. Beside her, Edharon nodded and turned his horse with a gentle pull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the free peoples of Middle-earth had begun their charge, and there was but one path forward.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 12</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>TRACK'S END</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blanket of stars strewn across the Hoarwell was swiftly drawn back as the fiery rays of the sun rose from the west and robed the river in lustful crimson and gold. Across the shore, the beaches were gilded in golden light, and not even the foul fumes of Gramsfoot that had beset Tol Ascarnen seemed to dull them, for all wrought by Aulë cannot be unmade by evil, his precious works undimmed by shadow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon the shores, Meow crouched before a large print less than a league from their camp. Her hair had come free of its bonds, for the wind from the southwest was fierce and cool, and it soaked their brows and thick traveling cloaks with mist. The wind brought with it the smell of forests and something stirring, a seldom bray from afar, yet she saw no riders on the distant shore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell us what you see," Rastlan said from behind as he watched the hobbit, her gaze and movements lingering. The night's argument had done little for his temper, and he was eager for some sign of their foe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"One set of prints, they lead…" Meow turned west, her brows creased with effort as she listened for another whinny on the chill breeze, and nodded towards a ruin and a number of trees, their trunks bare and many boughs hewn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let us not tarry," Rastlan said before moving swiftly forth to the tracks, yet neither Meow or Saeldris could keep pace. He was swift of foot and mind, and was eager to chase their foe to his end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why does he not wait?" Meow asked while sprinting from the beach and into the lawn's burnt grass, Saeldris less than a few paces behind her. She breathed heavily, and the cool, damp air aided her little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is some power over him that yields strength, and gives him purpose uncommon to most," Saeldris said, though her breath came easily, and her limbs did not seem to tire as they sprinted after the burglar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it stupidity?" Meow asked as they reached the top of a small slope. Rastlan was far ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris laughed softly beside Meow, and the hobbit looked to her with fondness, for joy was rare in the rue-keeper, and heard less than a lark's song in winter. "Perhaps, </span>
  <em>
    <span>meril.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meow laughed too, and they marched on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meow's track soon came to an end near the ruin and cluster of trees. Their foe lost, Rastlan waited by the wall for his companions, his mood dark and without mercy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The beauty of the shore was behind them, for they were many paces inside the lawn of Tol Ascarnen, and the scorching of Gramsfoot's army was dark and terrible. A dark cloud had risen above them, its shroud great enough to withhold the light of the morning sun, and wretched fumes swirled within it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Track again," Rastlan said as soon as his companions drew close, and his words withdrew him from stealth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meow frowned at the burglar, yet knelt to the ground and began to search for tracks left by those creatures akin to nature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As her brown eyes searched for signs across the scarred land, a stone was loosed from the top of the ruin. The fellowship turned, and before them a grey and white warg stood atop the old stones, unseen until drawn free from the shadows by their search.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes were narrow and rimmed with black, and his fur was matted with silt and defiler's blight. Large spots across the bristled fur of his back distinguished him from the rest of his breed, for he was Xarei, and but few of the free peoples had been harried by him after departing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dúnedain</span>
  </em>
  <span> camps, and many had fallen to his fangs and claws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You have roved far to die, fools,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" said the warg in their foul tongue, his words riddled with snarls and hatred, but his taunts were ended by one of Meow's shafts, Saeldris' shocking words, and Rastlan's double-edged strike. The warg fell from the stone ruin, and his body broke upon the sands and grass beneath the old stones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the ruin, dark shapes drew closer, yet the fellowship did not perceive them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where is your pack leader?" demanded Rastlan while pressing a sword to the warg's throat, yet he howled with laughter, and choked upon his own blood as it frothed from his lips. Wrathful, Rastlan pressed the weapon harder, but the warg did not answer, and none saw the dark shapes draw closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Our brother speaks the truth, Rastlan. You are, all of you, fools,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" said a voice from the enshrouding shadow. As they drew closer, their shapes and kin became clear - a pack of wargs, nearly a raid, their infamy enough to terrorize the whole of Hithlad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the largest among the wargs who had spoken. His fur was as black as the deepest reaches of Mirkwood, his eyes dark crimson, and his body thrice the size of any hound. For he was of a breed long since lost to Middle-earth, from an age long passed, and close in kin to the wretched creatures who resided in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, their howls heard oft beneath the banners of Morgoth's chief lieutenant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warg's mighty form stretched, his paws settling atop the ruin whence Xarei had leapt to reach with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>The whole of Gramsfoot has been marshalled beneath Tol Ascarnen, and a trap sprung for thy allies before the river's crossing</span>
  </em>
  <span>," spoke the great black warg, for it was he, at last, who had cornered the fellowship. He laughed, his cruel howl sounding across the beach and river. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Dusk has forsaken thee, for thou shalt not live to see the day's end.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan's grey eyes searched up the length of the warg's body. "I wager against those odds."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>As did thy friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>," spoke the massive warg, his lips curled to reveal rows of long, flaxen fangs spotted with dark growths and rotten flesh. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dost thou think I did not perceive thy friend's errand? Edharon…</span>
  </em>
  <span>" the wargs around the fellowship began to laugh, yet there seemed no mirth to it, for their snarls wrung with hunger and hatred. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>He died upon the sands beneath the banners of Vae Victis, though I flung his bones to the river, whence the current might speed him west, at last… or cast his remains as bracken upon the shore!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Meow took a step back, stricken with fear and anger, and set an arrow on the string. "You will come to regret that, by oath I swear it!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wargs continued to howl with laughter, many snapping their jaws at Meow, as Saeldris stepped forward, for were their words true Edharon's spirit would not swiftly come to the Halls of Doom, but linger as jagged ice in a shadowed pool unto spring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan's arm rose to halt his friend, for he saw through the riddling taunts of their foe. "You speak lies, but you will sow no dread here. For you are a shadow of greater sires, a mutt whose place is in the reeds, a far distance from any master's kennel." He laughed in return, "For neither you nor the cur of Vae Victis could Edharon to his end, even with your pitiful pack."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wargs ceased their howls, and their ears lowered to their bristling hides to hear themselves described so low, for their moods were swift to change, and taunts drew their ire. Greater still was their hatred for Rastlan, for his renown was great, and all desired to tear his throat and revel in his death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Many strode forward, snarling, even as the fellowship readied themselves for battle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The great black warg leapt to the ground, leaving the wall as mere rubble as it fell beneath the might of his leap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Know this, Rastlan, Man of the West, Carrion-Feast, for these words I deem a sworn oath: upon this field of battle, thou shalt reap thy doom, and thy spirit shalt speed away from these lands as I make a meal of thy bones, and those of your fellowship,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> the wargs around him snarled, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>will feed my brethren.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The pack crept forward, heads lowering as they drew near the fellowship. The three friends stepped away from them, their backs drawing close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan brandished his swords, Saeldris took up her runestone, and Meow made ready her bow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You wouldn't suppose now would be the time for desperate flight?" asked Meow while taking aim, hand unsteady. Beside her, Saeldris was as still and calm as stone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Our odds are far better than theirs," Rastlan answered with a smile, "for they were neutered by their masters, and have not a pair between them." He laughed, and the taunt drew greater ire from the wargs who surrounded the fellowship. "Come, then!" said the burglar, but all calls to battle were halted as arrows fired upon the bulwark, for in the west came a horn's bellow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the western landbridge rode a cavalry of free peoples who wore tall helms and carried red and sable banners. At their fore, a wild woman, her hair black and straight, blew upon a sulok's horn, and the bellowing note wrung across the island and past the Hoarwell. The riders drew forth great spears, and within moments had sped across the banks to make war against the wargs who loitered there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Rus!" called Meow as riders galloped past them, the very ground shaking as if with thunder, and many dismounted to give chase to the wargs who sprinted from their advance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The counter-assault has begun!" Saeldris said, and her hands became wreathed in fire as she turned to attack the greatest of wargs… yet he and Rastlan both were gone, perhaps fled, and the sand from the beach made a great cloud of dust that obscured their gaze. Through it, the shapes of horses rushed past while riders skewered growling wargs and put them to the sword or spear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet the horn of the Rus blew on, louder than the fray itself, as the herald and call to arms for the battle of Tol Ascarnen.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 13</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>THE CHARGE OF THE FREE PEOPLES</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The eastern wall of Tol Ascarnen had come to ruin. In their haste, the free peoples of Middle-earth did what the forces of Gramsfoot could not, through their own cunning and skill with masonry, and tore free the eastern gate. But their skill was for naught, for the entry passage was narrow and easily guarded by warleaders with towering shields that seemed as thick as foundation stones, and the Rus charge to the west had lent them little more than a distraction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the door, the army of free peoples, made of what remained of the Coldfells Army and the kinships of Middle-earth who hearkened to the summons for war, had come to their doom. The great heroes of Middle-earth stood in chaos, their lines scattered, commanders shouting amidst the fray in anger and dismay. Above them, the sky remained darkened, a greater menace than all but the wise knew, for it soured their tempers and strove to swell their hearts with dread. None escaped the Gift of the Eye, the darkness above them that would be swept away by naught, and all but the servants of the Enemy were lesser for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death's Bane was there, and so too were the Free Peoples of Arda, and Erebus, their dark blue banners held aloft. Many had answered the call to war, their tales sung in taverns and inns across Eriador, and farther east still in the lands of Rohan and Gondor, Dale and the Vales of Anduin:  Bozak, Fulred, Garam, Aryante, Waste of the beornings, Londriel, and Daec; Dilynne of Gondor, Flaky, Willo, Jomo, Lithnodil, and Aelvain. There too were Elegost, Khaurin, and Talah, Uruviel, Jangoe, and Paka. But there were more, of great and small renown, all gathered to claim the jewel of the Ettenmoors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, despite the great gathering of heroes, no amount of strength in arms or skill would yield a path forward. Arrows from the castle rained down upon them, wargs harried their flanks, and all was in disarray as commands to press forward or fall back were met with little heed or worse - death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amidst the chaos was Lucibell. She played her flute, bolstering the courage of those around her as they charged for the ruined gate and were refused, or else slain in their advance. The path to the east gate had become glutted with the remains of the dead, their armor pelted with the black shafts of the archers above. Some few yet lived, their cries of pain reminding all of their dire torment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet still, the free peoples charged for the eastern gate to their merciless slaughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hours before, they swiftly advanced to join the remnants of the Army of Free Peoples, though their warnings were for naught. Beneath the grim sights of Tol Ascarnen, the kinships decided to advance to the eastern gate and force entry, ere the enemy fortified them completely, and hoped prisoners held within might yet escape if they could not reclaim the castle. Lucibell had been tasked in the fore, though the rest of Until the End had been drawn into the van. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In dismay, Lucibell left the battle formations, such as they were, and traveled north to a small hill. There, she sat and peered down at the battle. Up above, uruk blackarrows yelled insults and laughed at a group of champions who shot their bows beneath. Defliers heaved blight down upon the ranks of the free peoples, and their morale was broken as they dismayed in the filth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her friends were not to be found, lost and astray amidst the gathered army, though she hoped they stood somewhere in the throng, safe. She was alone, for even Edharon had left to join the van, and she longed for the company of a single friendly face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tormented, she lowered her head into her hands and rubbed her brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their reinforcements, the gathering of the great army, all their sacrifices… were for naught. Thereafter, Tol Ascarnen would be lost to them, its walls forever filled by the Dread and her hordes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Memories of Wren, her black hair swept by an autumn breeze, surfaced among her thoughts, and she longed to see her again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thought Lucibell, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if my Wren could see me now…</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yet she turned from the memory, for the thought of her was too much to bear as the cries of those felled by blackarrows reached her ears atop the hill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell remained there, alone, as the torments of battle waylaid her heart, and dark sorcery deepened her dismay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Luci."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words seemed out of a dream, one from long ago, that she remembered only a part of. Turning from the darkness, she felt a hand rest gently on her shoulder, and heard the creaking of leather and the whine of metal scraping against it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before her were three friends. Iselija, tall and wild, wore a battle dress, old pauldrons, and carried both a shield and lute upon her back. Her mood was grim, stark blue eyes turned to the battle before the east gate. Before her was Falcon, who seemed as tall and broad as a mountain. His hide cloak bustled in the breeze, and his hair and beard were sopping wet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The third was crouched beside her, hand upon her shoulder, and a very dear friend. His eyes were filled with warmth and his smile was slight and kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Sam," she said happily through tears. She wiped her cheeks and sniffed loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "What a sight I must be." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson smiled and lowered his head. Wild, quiet, he regarded the good ground beneath them. "You are. A sight, that is." Turning, he regarded her for a moment more. "These passed few days, I cannot think of seeing anything that brought a smile, save you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell brightened. "Oh, Sam." Behind them, Iselija smirked. Falcon grunted, expression dour. "It warms my spirits to see you all, even if our efforts have been in vain. But where is Haslor? Is he not to lead the charge?" She looked for the aged captain, but did not see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson lowered his head and did not answer. His brow rested upon her shoulder, and his mood seemed to darken during a long silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He will not come," answered Falcon at last, and Lucibell's heart felt heavy once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, we are finished then? Tol Ascarnen has fallen, and shan't be returned?" Lucibell looked to each of them, but none answered, and so she leaned into her friend. His arm wrapped around her, close, as dread and sorrow overcame them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We will soon be overrun," she said softly. "We cannot breach their defenses, and all our toil, these long years of war..." Lucibell signed deeply as Samulson squeezed her shoulder. "The Ettenmoors will fall into the clutches of the enemy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There the heroes remained, alone upon the hill before the northern beach of Tol Ascarnen, beset by the waging battle before the eastern gate of the castle. Beyond them, the free peoples anguished on, surviving charge after charge, only to be turned aside as a sword greeted by a stout shield. Beyond them, the Army of Gramsfoot reared in happiness to celebrate their torment, and their victory seemed assured as the hour grew darker, and the resolve of their foes more grim.</span>
</p><p><span>Suddenly, a large hand settled on Samulson's shoulder. "The assault cannot falter," spoke Falcon, voice deep and low. He pulled gently. "It is time, Sam."</span><span><br/></span> <span>"Sam?" Lucibell asked as the warden rose. His kind smile had fled, and the well of tears had dried. He helped Lucibell to her feet, nodded, and turned to his friends, and she thought then that a different man stood before her, for he was not the Samulson she remembered, but a man whose doom was written upon him as clear as cracks in stone. </span></p><p>
  <span>"Come," he bade them, and strode down the hill to the fore of the free people's formation before the eastern walls of Tol Ascarnen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confused, Lucibell followed alongside her friends, rushing down the hill, but soon found herself in the throng and was caught amidst many others. Bannermen and men-at-arms pressed forward and back as mighty champions and guardians stood shoulder-to-shoulder, awaiting a time when they might charge ahead. Unable to see, or push free, Lucibell sought to shove her way forward until a voice rose above the shouts and clashes upon the field of battle, and all was stilled before it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <b>Harken, Free Peoples of Middle-earth</b>
  <span>!" the voice bade them, and many turned to hear, for it seemed to them, and to Lucibell, that the command was spoken by a captain, or else a great lord of men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Battle and glory! Toil and hardship! Long have we made ready for this day, when our steel shall be bloodied, our armor rent! Our courage proven ere the day's end!!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All gathered had turned to hear the voice, and not one of them dared move. Lucibell slipped through, and there she saw Samulson standing amidst the throng of the gathered army, a circle of soldiers and great heroes about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His spear and shield were held aloft, and Lucibell saw light enveloping him in radiance, that his spear seemed wrought of gold and pearl, and his helm appeared to bear the light of a star from whence hope routed the terrible shadow darkening their hearts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That day is upon us! An axe day, a day of harrowing, when we march victorious! March now! For renown, for glory, and for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tol Ascarnen!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around her, the army of the free peoples cheered, their voices echoing louder than the clamor of battle, as Samulson's call to arms rallied them. Beyond, the forces of the enemy seemed to dim, their cheering quieted before the warden's call. Samulson turned to face them, wreathed in radiance and light, and struck his spear into the soiled earth, its base blistered from the toils of siege and battle. He raised forth his javelin.</span>
</p><p><span>"UNTIL THE END!" he called, and his voice rang across the field and through the castle. Such was the power beheld that atop the battlements the archers drew away, and the uruks who held the ruined door below became wary.</span><span><br/></span> <span>The free peoples of Middle-earth took up the call, and the ground shook with fervour beneath them as their voices rang across the Hoarwell and beyond. "Until the end!" answered the army before Samulson, and a renewed thirst for battle was kindled in their hearts.</span></p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <b>UNTIL THE END!</b>
  <span>" shouted the warden, and from his hand the javelin flew. So great was its flight, it pierced the thick shield of a warleader who stood guard before the ruined gate, and those who flanked him were brought to the ground with a thundering crash that smote them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Until the end!" called the army, and they charged forward, across the lawn, and to the ruined east gate with all speed. The charge shook the old stones, and none of the enemy who saw stood firm. As Lucibell watched, she saw the might of Samulson burn hot across the battlefield, and she bore witness to its purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For before her stood not her old friend, but a new man, and his spirit was fire, his words a tempest, and none would slow him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lifting her sword, Lucibell joined the charge for the gate. It was soon overrun, and the archers above were met with her cry to the Mariner. "Until the End!" she shouted, and all around her the battle shout echoed as the free peoples of Middle-earth breached the gate..</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 14 </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>SERVANT UNTIL THE END</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>To the west, between both bridge and the shallows to the island's south, Tol Ascarnen was beset by Rus, wild men on horseback who hailed from lands far to the east. Long had they resisted the will of the Eye, for shriekers had been sent beyond the Sea of Rhun with legions of orcs and trolls in years long passed until the rise of the black tower. Yet never did those legions return. </p><p>Stubborn unto the fading of the world, the Rus would burn forest, home, city, and field across their wide lands, lending the Armies of Sauron naught, and without single victory the shriekers would return alone, their battalions of orcs and trolls mere skeletons upon the march west from distant lands beyond eastern sea. The tales of defeat were legend, spoken in hushed tones before small fires lest the shriekers hear and take the teller's tongue. For though loyal to Sauron, orcs and goblins feared him, and reveled in the misery of his defeat as it wreathed them with, though small, shreds of hope. </p><p>The Rus would do all to safeguard their homes, and Nazukât wondered then if she had the strength to do the same, to lend, though small, one last glimmer of hope.</p><p>The sable banners of the enemy raced across the western lawn, and their spears and pikes made swift work of retreating wargs who scattered to the breeze and hid behind earth, tree, and wall. They were swift on horse, second only to the Rohirrim, and few withstood their onslaught on the open field.</p><p>
  <em> Cowards. </em>
</p><p>Yet, the wargs served their purpose, for the hounds of the Eye had drawn the cavalry within range of the walls, close enough for a counter-assault, and warbands of reavers rushed from the castle and battered the Rus without mercy before swift retreat. Without remorse or hesitation, blackarrows released death blossoms upon their foes, and dozens fell to screaming shafts from above. Nazukât watched all from the tower atop Tol Ascarnen, and victory seemed as certain as leaves drifting free in autumn.</p><p>In the west, the battle was won, the mighty Rus lead to slaughter… their ruin spoken, without fault, as the Dread of the free peoples had claimed. The voice in Nazukât's mind weaved webs laced with instruction, truth caught between errant strands and her desires, and she could not yet turn from them.</p><p>As though instructed, Nazukât turned from the west and peered through a ruined window overseeing the battleground to the east. One large hand gripped the stone tight when she saw, far in the distance, the black banners of Erebus. Chily rode beneath them, but they had not yet come, and so instead her dark gaze settled upon the beryl and grey banners of the Leithiani, and beneath them she saw the familiar form of Yand standing amidst the eastern ruins and gathered force of the free peoples. Great was his renown on the field of battle, yet he was better known for his kind heart.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Burzumishi krimpatuz snagazka.</em> </b>
</p><p>The words resonated in her mind, beating within her as the smith's hammer upon a black forge. In the distance, the howl of wargs and clash of battle seemed of no importance, and the webs of her master conceived new designs.</p><p>"Bring by bow," Nazukât rasped, her talon-fingers extended to the servant beside her. The bow was given, and Nazukât drew back the string with a fluid motion.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Matuz...</em> </b>
</p><p>Below, Yand and the kinsman of Leithiani did not see the flight of the single shaft from the broken eastern window of Tol Ascarnen, yet they watched Yand fall, pierced through the helm, and saw blood drench his hair and neck from the wound.</p><p>And so fell another hero of the Ettenmoors, as sheep to slaughter, and many grieved his death in the days that followed. Songs of lament were sung, and his burial mound was raised high with many stones marking with his deeds, and the building of it took many passes of the moon.</p><p>Nazukât withdrew from the window, and though she had no love for the Leithiana, nor for Yand against whom she had known a great many conflicts, she knew then that all hope of peace had been lost. For he was loved, and there would be no mercy for those besieged. Thoughts of hope were stricken from her mind, sewn through with the webs that clouded her thoughts.</p><p>"Send them," she said, with words that were her own, and yet sounded as though they were.</p><p>From behind, a warleader raised a banner sewn with red, its pole crested with the image of the Eye. Across the battlefield, their enemy knew terror, and from below bellowed a dire horn. From the many gaps and holes of the walls sprung forth reavers who charged east, thrashed their foes, and found glory in victory as the free peoples mourned or retreated from their positions near the walls and were overcome.</p><p>Within the eastern entrance, the free peoples found no victory, and were unable to overcome the warleaders who held the door with locked shields. The free peoples knew the grim face of death in those moments, as scores of them fell beneath the hewing blades of reavers, or were else slain by arrows as defilers blighted the battlefield, and wavers prevented their swift retreat to the east.</p><p>Within the landscape of her mind, shrouded by the Dread's unrelenting webs, Nazukât knew great joy and thought only of the coming feast. Yet there were glimmers of her true self, and Nazukât knew terror and sadness. Lost, forsaken, she was a mere marionette upon the strings of her master...</p><p>Yet, above the throes of battle, through her great regret, Nazukât heard a thunderous strike beneath, the strength of it shook the very floor she stood upon, and the walls rang with clamor. She turned and sought the battlefield, and upon the grounds saw a short man, bearded and crouching, whose javelin seemed imbued with light.</p><p>She knew him at once.</p><p>"Until the End has come!" cried orcs from below, and Nazukât heard the slaughter of the warleaders who held the eastern gate. She moved forward, words drew forth, but all was soon quieted as the den of webs within her thoughts grew thick and dark, giving way to her mistress.</p><p>"Recall our forces to the corridor," she said, though the words were still not her own. "Give no ground! Make them suffer for every step and know the pain of their foe."</p><p>Servants rushed from the landing to the stair to bark the new orders to those below, but Nazukât did not join them. Instead, she felt her body turn, and saw below the battlefield and warden upon it. There, shrouded in green, beset by fire and foes, she imagined Samulson held within the gibbet. His flesh was rent by spear as many jeered his capture, and he howled with torment as the Dread conceived of his demise.</p><p>The seething hatred did not cease, and madness seemed a kinder fate.</p><p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 14 </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>TAUNTS AND DUELS</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The western land bridge was overrun by Rus cavalry. Their banners of sable and red, strung across long poles, flashed across the beach as the riders came to the darkened isle atop broad, armored horses who shook the ground beneath their hooves.</p><p>Before the cavalry was a great pack of wargs, but many had fled, as they were wont, for they were a wretched, cowardly breed who took to the shadows to strike their foes, yet had few defenses in an open field and were easily overcome by swift opponents. The few who remained in the field had retreated to the western wall of Tol Ascarnen and skirted around a boulder, drawing their foes forward to their doom.</p><p>Rastlan stood near the western ruins, upon the field, as the Rus tread close to Tol Ascarnen and drew the ire of blackarrows who stood upon the ramparts and fired down upon them. Through the darkened haze, he saw their shafts strike horse and rider alike, though many fell from his sight. Around him were the corpses of wargs, stricken by lances or Rastlan's sword, and his arms and armor were darkened by their blood. As he rushed forward, dagger and sword both turned aside arrows fired from above, for such was his skill in combat that he had no use for shield or cover.</p><p>As the Rus rode to the walls, reavers charged from the western ruins and slew many who were dismounted before returning to the smoking ruin. Dozens of fallen Rus were waylaid and left bleeding, though many more rushed forth and took to the hill. Among them, Rastlan cut down reavers who drew near, felling most with a strike to the neck and double-edged strikes. Yet despite his skill, many more reavers sprinted past and slew the dismounted Rus, or otherwise felled their horses and sent the riders to the earth with a great clamor.</p><p><em> There is no victory here</em>. </p><p>Dismayed, Rastlan began to turn from the assault even as the horns sounded from the west and Rus shouted to charge the hill. He turned, searching for a way to withdraw, though his retreat was not swift enough. For an unseen darkness followed him, its skill so great it passed unseen across the Ettenmoors as it pleased.</p><p>From above, a massive form leapt and struck him in the shoulders. With strength unknown to men, it knocked him to the ground, yet Rastlan was able to find his footing as a warg's claws sunk into his shoulder and neck.</p><p>"<em>So quick art thee to flee. Whilst thou abandon thy allies so soon Rastlan, Coward of the Ettenmoors?" </em></p><p>Before him stood the great black warg, his maw caked with blood and gore and pressed close to the burglar's face. His claws pierced through armor and mail, deepening the wounds, and crushed him against the stone ruin. So great was the warg's strength that he would have slain most foes in a single pounce, as he so often did, yet Rastlan was uncommon prey. </p><p>As swift as he could, Rastlan struggled free and hid in the plain sight.</p><p><em> I must find Saeldris and Meow and warn them of the uruk trap </em> thought Rastlan as he drew his hand to his neck. His fingers were slick with blood after the touch, and his wounded shoulder burned as the sands of a desert.</p><p>The great black warg howled with laughter. "<em> Thou wouldst flee from our duel, coward? It matters not. I can smell thee from a league away…" </em>   his head lowered and he inhaled the stench and fumes of the battlefield, his lips curling into a wicked smile, " <em> though perhaps I shalt wait to corner thee, for thy friends wouldst make good sport!" </em></p><p>Pausing, Rastlan felt his ire rise.</p><p>"<em> My pack shalt find thee, and track three until thy legs tire, and thou shalt be alone until I bring forth the corpses of thy friends for thou to behold! </em> " shouted the warg. "<em>And thus shalt Rastlan, eunuch and elf-thrall know his doom before his foe who art better by all measure! </em>" The warg laughed, and his black fur bristled while he tracked forward.</p><p>With all the skill he could muster, Rastlan took aim from behind the warg and assaulted him with what would have been a <em> coup de grace </em> to a lesser foe, yet though thrice stricken the great black warg did not fall. Reeling, and howling in pain, he pounced Rastlan as the burglar made a feint attack.</p><p>Stricken with dire pain, Rastlan's blades sunk deep into the warg's shoulder, and thus was the fell creature pinned to the lawn of Tol Ascarnen before the burglar's skill. "None of those are my titles, fool. Do you know what it is they call me?" he asked.</p><p>The warg's might was great, but no strength would carry him away from Rastlan's swords, and the elven steel burned his flesh, for the strength of Beleriand was in them. "<em> Rastlan, Hero of the Ettenmoors? Stalker's Bane </em> ? <em> Dúnadan? </em> " The beast choked, and black blood dripped from his fangs. " <em> It matters not, for you have the courage of a weasel, and all who regale you are fools. </em>"</p><p>Yet the words were never finished, and the warg's life was ended with a stroke as swift as the morning sun stretching across a plain. Black blood gorged from the wound in his neck, and it spewed from his mouth to coat Rastlan's hand and arm, whence it burned as boiling water.</p><p>Pained, Rastlan dropped his sword and clutched his hand to his breast, though he did not scream as he stumbled backward to see his enemy felled. The massive beast was as large as a boulder, and his death throes churned the lawn beneath him.</p><p>"That is not what they call me," Rastlan said with a wild grin, for he had won, and the pain and fear of death was hardly felt as joy turned to madness. Turning, he stumbled for the beach, laughing. "They call me Colonel Angus, for I always leave a mess when my work is done."</p><p>Laughing as Rus rushed past, and reavers and wargs won the hill, the burglar took no more than two dozen steps before falling to the sands and rolling onto his back.</p><p>There he lay, chuckling at the thought of his own crude jest, until the pain stole from him his sight and consciousness.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Chapter 15 </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>BONDS OF FELLOWSHIP</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>"SHIELDS!" cried Samulson.</p><p>He stood at the fore, with the vanguard, in the tide of battle between the dark forces of Gramsfoot and the many banners of the kinships of Middle-earth. Behind him, the Army of the Free Peoples had rallied. Those with spears thrust them into the retreating line of uruks and orcs, their strength unrelenting as they pressed forward against the line of shields of the free peoples. </p><p>Guardians, wardens, captains, and champions had strode forth to stand shoulder to shoulder with Samulson. Together their shields had become braced against one another, their strength ladened as a retaining wall of steel and boards meant to withstand their foe. </p><p>Behind, many friends waited in the middle guard - Neemiriel, Alcarnarmo, Lucibell, Edharon, Bolli, and Falcon - but their advance was halted by tight quarters and a vast number of foes. At their feet, the ground had grown slick with oil, spilled from above by cackling goblins, their plight dire as they sought to press forward, past the ruined east hall, and into the courtyard of Tol Ascarnen. In the shadow of Ost Lôdhuin, its ruins bathed in the reds of the afternoon sun, they sought a final and fitting end, much like the Elendilmir, though all prayed it would not be upon cold shores, alone, and left to rot upon forgotten muddy banks.</p><p>Yet despite the arduous toil, fools still rushed forward.</p><p>Samulson watched as a dwarf in full plate, helm adorned with silver horns, charged to the edge of the fray and past the line of shields. His greataxe swung with a great cleave, as a wall of blades, and rent armor and bones with its strength. "<em> Baruk Khazâd!" </em>he shouted while his armored boots crushed foes beneath him whence they fell, smote by each cleave of his mighty axe.</p><p>A path of retreat was opened for the dwarf between the shieldwall of the free peoples, but his battle fervour was high, his thirst for blood was great. And so he remained, clearing the corridor ahead through the blood-soaked hall, its walls splattered with crimson and black. </p><p>A slow sense of dread festering in his heart, Samulson watched through the throng of foes as a path was cleared before the champion… and beyond, through the tide of battle, he perceived a cohort of blackarrows readying a volley.</p><p>"Fall back!" he called, yet the command was too late, and the dwarf was astray and unrelenting in his fervor. The strong pulls of uruk blackarrows were slow, but they pummelled the dwarf with shafts, and he met his end in haste and blood, his raging blades swinging in a final attack to bring many within the throng to violent end.</p><p>Samulson's heart weighed heavy as the shield wall before him closed, protecting those within from the forces of the enemy who swiftly met the line of steel, spurred with bloodlust and wrath for their fallen kin. Behind Samulson, minstrels played and sang, lifting their spirits. Among them he heard Lucibell's flute, its strange and cavernous notes lifted his morale, if only for a moment, before the peril facing them.</p><p>"Together!" Samulson shouted as he saw the blackarrows preparing another volley of death blossoms, and the row of shield-bearers closed ranks as the dwarf champion before them was hewn, the forces of the enemy fighting amongst one another to feast on his flesh as others tore free his armor. </p><p>The shafts descended upon the forces of the free peoples, as dark as fog at dusk, yet as they fell an orc thrust his spear forward, fating Samulson to choose swiftly between holding firm, or having cover beneath his shield. He watched as the arrows descended, their flight spiraling above the ruins of the hall. For a moment, it seemed it would be his end, and his words of courage seemed a fools errand, his charge a mere march to the dead halls.</p><p>Above, finely wrought metal rose to save him.</p><p>Turning, Samulson saw a massive shield, wrought of mithril and gold in the fashion of the elves of Eregion. Its bearer smiled, hair as black as night and skin fair, her eyes the deep blue of an eastern sky in twilight.</p><p>"<em> Mae g'ovannen mellon anann," </em>spoke Cerista as she lowered her shield and joined the line.</p><p>Overcome with relief, the warden regarded his old friend as she smote a reaver with her shield and thrust him backward, where he met his end upon the pikes of his brethren with a cry of anguish.</p><p>"I thought your people sailed west after the fall of the black tower," Samulson said at last over the terrible beating of metal and wailing of orcs, for the span of dark banners before them was laden with terror and suffering, and the cries of battle could be heard across the whole of the isle. </p><p>The elves of Eregion, Cerista's kin, had suffered greatly in the shadow of Caradhras, and the fall of the Iron Garrison in Moria had encouraged further evil to fester outside the lost Kingdom of Moria. Those survivors of Eregion, many scholars, had long left their ruins and sought the safety of Imladhris, or else made haste west to Duilond and its ports farther west, where many found refuge and peace in the foothills of Ered Luin.</p><p>"And yet you see yourself, with your own eyes, it is not so," Cerista replied with a gentle smile amidst the turmoil.</p><p>"Why would you not go? Your enemy is defeated… this land holds nothing for your people," Samulson said while pushing back against the horde of orcs who fought against their shields.</p><p>For a time, Cerista aided him in pressing against the throng of enemies before them, shield raised and firm. Yet she spoke again, voice as soft as a trickling stream, "Even in darkness, there is light. You have but to cling to hope to see the dawn," Cerista said, her boots struggling to find purchase in the mud-laden floor of the ancient corridor.</p><p>"I suppose that is what I deserve for asking an elf a question," Samulson admitted, for elves were renowned for answering both yes and no, even in times most dire. </p><p>Around them, the clamor of steel and curses echoed in the hallway, but Cerista smiled, her sense of calm not disturbed. </p><p>"Though it matters little, for I am not sure there's much left. Hope, that is." Samulson felt the elf's hand slap against the pauldron of his armor.</p><p>"This time," Cerista continued to smile, the beautiful blue of her eyes an endless evening sky amidst the dark banners and shadows before them, "I will speak plain: when all hope is lost, trust then in the bonds of fellowship." </p><p>Cerista turned 'round, shield still held firm before her, and shouted across the corridor, "<em> Tangado haid!" </em></p><p> Samulson saw they were joined by many elven guardians, and many more elves with beautiful bows had taken position behind them, their rank and file glittering with silver mail and blues as deep as the hues upon distant mountain peaks.</p><p>She turned back to Samulson as the reinforcements advanced, "Even the mighty stars of Elbereth stand not alone, but alongside their brethren. For what hope have we against the darkness without fellowship?"</p><p>"Thank you, Ceri…" Samulson said grimly as he felt the strength of the elves join the shield wall, his arm at last given rest. Behind him, the archers fired into their foes, and many of the enemy were slain by elven arrows, or else injured and forced to retreat.</p><p>As the slow battle continued, another figure clothed in long, resplendent robes, strode through the vanguard and to the line of locked shields. He drew forth an old tome and crouched as a sudden breeze, unnatural and fresh, rushed through the hallway.</p><p>The robed elf began an incantation, voice low, in a tongue Samulson did not know. His attention turned back to the horde before him, and his spear slew one orc after another, harrying them with effort.</p><p>"What sorcery is this?" Samulson turned to Cerista, and she looked too after the robed figure.</p><p>"Let us hope a way forward," she replied, but little of her attention was spared while her curved sword ended the life of another uruk.</p><p>Samulson wondered after the usefulness of such magic. A spear and shield brought more to their end than much of the arcane craft he had seen, for battles were won by steel and blood - by warriors who braved the province of terror with strength in their hearts, not the relief of a cool breeze.</p><p>His mind lost briefly in thought, Samulson was surprised to hear a faint, but deep and powerful voice upon the fresh and welcome breeze rushing through the ancient corridor. </p><p>In those early moments of the incantation, he could not hear what was spoken, for it seemed akin to boughs shaking high above in a dense wood, yet the words soon began to boom throughout the ruined hall, echoing across the stone walls and through the lawn of Tol Ascarnen.</p><p> "<em> ... with doom we come," </em> they rumbled, shaking the foundation stones of the castle, " <em> with doom we come! Burárum! </em>" Many turned, seeking the voice, as others stepped back in fear. Cerista smiled as she watched the black banners of the uruks shake and withdraw.</p><p>From the lore-master rose a towering sight, greater in size than any man or elf, its shape and height akin to a tree. Bent, for it would surely touch the ruin's ceiling, the colossal spectre gleamed with light and an aura of green.</p><p>As the lore-master stepped, so too did the treelike creature, its limbs slowly revealed to be covered in bark and moss. Before it, hundreds of orcs and uruks made to flee, but in their haste most fell, or else were unable to move with haste in the corridor. With a giant step, the walking tree brought down its foot upon them. </p><p>Samulson stood in awe as the wooded creature's limps swept across the gathered orcs, slaying dozens in two swipes, before the summoning ended. The walking tree disappeared from sight as a vanishing ray of sunlight within a forest canopy at dusk.</p><p>The corridor had been emptied of resistance, the broken bodies of the slain or injured left in strewn piles across the earthen floor, and many of the free peoples stood aghast at what they had witnessed. </p><p>Yet the time for shock and awe was not then, and Samulson made haste in raising his spear. "March!" he called.</p><p>Behind him, more champions took to the field, and they were joined by burglars and those who had helped hold the line of shields. From within the gathered banners, Falcon roared, and thick fur grew suddenly across him as he rose to even greater height. He was soon transformed, fur dark and eyes a terrifying menace, and took to the fore as a massive bear, his wrath abounding and without end. Dozens were slain by his claws, or else torn apart by the clamp of his maw, as black arrows peppered him with foul shafts.</p><p>Behind the vanguard, Alcarnarmo and Saeldris drew forth runestones that soon became wreathed in flame. Fire flowed from their hands, runes written upon the burning tendrils, until great gulfs of fire slammed into the retreating line of orcs and uruks. The few blackarrows who remained were burned to bitter ruin in the combustion, and many more were smoldered to ash. The corridor was cleared, and the banners of the free peoples were raised in a hail of victory.</p><p> </p><p>"Harken!" Samulson called above the cheers of victory and clamor to secure the hall. "Make for the stairs, and for the tyrant!" He turned and began to stride for the courtyard where great trolls had already been slain, overcome by champions' fury of blades, and many orcs had turned to flee west through the smoldering ruins.</p><p>Beside Samulson, Cerista smiled and gripped his arm as they advanced into the courtyard before the northern stairs. Specks of black blood dotted her features, though her sword was slick with it. "You see, old friend? Trust in fellowship, for there always lies hope."</p><p>Samulson watched as Cerista smiled, relieved, for their victory was but moments away. Yet her expression soon turned to one of surprise as the pang of metal pounding and scraping resounded between them. </p><p>They both watched, stunned, as the hardened steel of her breastplate sundered, the steel punctured gruesomely with a swift thrust, and her mail burst and split as swiftly as harvested wheat. Through her armor was a long, black limb, slick with Cerista's blood, its tip as sharp as any sword and longer than any spear.</p><p>Samulson stood in horror as black vapors descended, Cerista's grip upon his arm loosening until she held him no more. The courtyard descended into darkness and dread while morgul fog billowed throughout the courtyard, unrestrained and merciless. </p><p>Cerista's helm slumped to the side, her eyes wide with terror, as she was lifted by a great leg, shrouded in the malignant mist of shadow. Samulson could do naught as she was thrown across the courtyard of Tol Ascarnen with strength unheld by the race of Men.</p><p>"Cerista," whispered Samulson, yet his old friend had been thrust out of sight, and the black mist had begun to give way in plumes of mist that made his heart pound, and his vision blurred with an aura of green darkness he could not escape. Through its wake descended a titan of black and green, its legs eight in number, head larger than a man's chest and beset by mighty fangs as long as a man's forearm.</p><p>The Dread of the Free Peoples was upon them, and with one swipe of its forelegs, a great many bannermen were cloven in two, or else wounded so grievously they retreated from the field of battle.</p><p>Above, defilers slick with slime and ooze had begun to use their despicable craft to tend to their brethren, and many who seemed slain rose to rejoin the ranks, their purpose as cruel as before. Beyond them, hundreds of spiders, great and small, ascended over Tol Ascarnen's south wall, or descended upon silken threads to surround the Army of the Free Peoples. Poisonous spray and toxin struck them, and dozens of men and elves were stricken with the weavers' tainted kiss, and many more were bound by webs and slowed.</p><p>Samulson turned, watching as what was once assured victory gave way to what would surely end in defeat. Overcome, he saw they had fallen into a trap, ensnared in a weaver's den… he felt so foolish to have marched forth. </p><p>Behind him, spiders ensnared the archways that would lead to retreat, and risen reavers charged through their lines to separate the army. Through the mists of darkness, he heard the screams of his brethren as they were slain without remorse. Divided, they would but fall faster into shadow and death.</p><p>
  <em> For what hope have we against the darkness alone? </em>
</p><p>The words shook his morale, and he felt his strength wane. <em> Ceri… I failed us, </em> he thought, and he saw then, through the mists, that Edharon had fallen, his helm cloven in two by a reaver's axe, his ruined form overwhelmed by weavers who had begun to feast upon him. </p><p>Falcon had been pinned by cruel spears, yet his wrath was still great. Around them, Lucibel, Neemiriel, and Iselja tried to rally their spirits, yet it was for naught, for the army could not withstand the might of the Dread, nor the great number of orcs and uruks who had been rallied by the defilers. Fire raged against shadow, yet the runes were diminished by the morgul shroud. He thought he saw Alcarnarmo fall, but the sight was too much to bear.</p><p> Hopeless, Samulson turned aside a reaver's strike and slammed his shield against him, and as the reaver fell he was skewered on Cerista's fallen sword.</p><p><em> You see, old friend? </em> </p><p>Samulson stood still, amidst the clamor of the battle, the words a distant light in shadow, a truth he had once known. His eyes closed as hope abandoned the free peoples, though he glimpsed Cerista, gripped by horror, as she was bound by shadow and gripped thus into oblivion.</p><p>For all was falling to darkness...</p><p> </p><p>Yet in the distance, Samulson heard the call of a Gondorian rallying horn, though he could not be certain from whence it came, or if it was real. </p><p>
  <em> Trust in fellowship… </em>
</p><p>As he remembered Cerista's final words, Samulson gripped his spear with the last of his strength, and its length beat harshly against his shield as a taunt. </p><p>
  <em> … for there always lies a hope. </em>
</p><p>"Dread of the Free Peoples!" called Samulson, and many turned to regard him. For it seemed to the weary soldiers that in him was a hope, a small chance, and in the gloom of dread that had come upon them all saw a light, pure yet diminished by sorcery, not yet extinguished by the morgul mists that beset them.</p><p>Yet the Dread saw too, and her eyes of green flame were filled with hunger and wrath for the warden who had named her.</p><p>"Long have you plagued these lands, but no more as long as I draw breath! Come forth," Samulson looked to the darkness for his friends, and in the pause they rallied many, "and find your end!" His spear slapped twice more against his shield, and Samulson's defiant challenge was heard by all in the courtyard.</p><p>Drawn to his challenge, the dread turned and crept forward, each step thundering across the courtyard, her gaze without remorse. With her, dozens of spiders crept, and they surrounded Samulson.</p><p>The eight eyes of his enemies were soon within a spear's reach, and her mandibles, sharp and cruel, snapped as she rose to a great height and looked down upon her prey.</p><p>
  <em> Agh thraktul kalmragh!  </em>
</p><p>The words were a cruel whisper in his mind, a chill sent to speed through Samulson with dire haste. </p><p>Yet he shook the terror free and gripped his spear tightly. "That may be, but I will never surrender," he said hotly, and he felt the weight of dread leave his heart in time to raise his shield and turn aside a strike from his foe.</p><p>Around them, the forces of the enemy and free peoples fought on, courage bolstered by the warden's gambit, though Samulson challenged their greatest enemy alone. Their duel took them to the edge of the courtyard, but the warden's spear found little purchase against the armored carapace, for it was as stout as steel, though thicker by a hand's width. The battle was long, and he grew tired, and his foe sensed that he was weakened. </p><p>Though Samulson's armor was thick, she bit through the hide of his pauldrons, her fangs dripping with deadly morgul venom, yet Samulson's resistance was high, and he fought on through pain and poison. For the memory of Cerista's death spurred his vengeance, and he refused to let her end come to naught.</p><p>As his strength waned, sensing opportunity, Samulson evaded a massive thrust that buried the Dread's limb in rubble. With all of his agility, Samulson pinned the dead's forelimb with his shield so that she could not escape. </p><p>Shrieking with rage and terror, the Dread sought to slay him, strike after strike seeking his neck or limbs, yet Samulson kept her attacks at bay, as long as he might, to lend what aid was left within him.</p><p>One last, final, hope.</p><p>Yet his strength did wane, his limbs tired from the long battle and venom coursing through his body. The clutched leg of the Dread began to slip free, and with it Samulson knew his fate. Eight eyes, filled with wrath and revenge, bore down upon him, though he turned not from their ire.</p><p>Yet while the leg began to wrench free, Samulson saw from above a light - bright, pure, and blinding, he strained to remember whence he had seen such a beacon. Before him, the dread shied away from it with a shriek, and all efforts to slay her foe were abandoned as she raised a limb to shield herself from the brilliance that pierced through the unnatural shadow.</p><p>"<em> Elendil!" </em> came a familiar battle cry from above, and from a ruined rampart leapt a figure in armor of the finest quality. Samulson watched as the warrior made the shadows lament before his attack, for such was its strength the halberd sundered the pinned leg of the Dread in a single, noble strike. The colossal weaver screeched and retreated from the fore with thunderous steps, her limb gushing with ichor and blood that burned the very ground beneath her.</p><p> Númenverist, for it could be no other, shone with the light of elder days, freeing the courtyard of the morgul flog whence had befouled the castle. In the wake of light, Samulson saw his friend, clad in the raiment of Númenor, his ancient weapon gleaming and soured by green blood that dripped from the blade and poured from the wound it gave to their dreaded foe. </p><p>The weaver recoiled in fear and anger against a distant pillar, yet did not flee, as Haslor gripped Samulson's arm and steadied him.</p><p>"You came," Samulson said, smiling despite his weariness.</p><p>"I could not abandon you." The captain raised him up and looked to the battlefield - it was grim, but behind him came a call and the twang of bows as hobbits, the guardians from Hoarhollow, fired upon the enemy. Among them was Jilli, fierce and stubborn, whose swift bow would not relent.</p><p>With them were sparse reinforcements… and Mack the Knife, whose knives were out and made dozens bleed and regret their assaults upon him.</p><p>"What of your oaths?" asked Samulson as the battle was joined, yet he had grown ill and tired from poison, and though his enemy had fled he felt spent, unrelieved.</p><p>Haslor smiled grimly and nodded his head, his words dire, "Yes... my oaths."</p><p>Around them, the Army of the Free Peoples rallied, their attacks hastened by the captain's routing cry and the warden's strength, the host's strength renewed after their words of courage. Defilers were hewn apart, and dozens of weavers met their end as fellowships began to harry the Dread and the forces of darkness that remained.</p><p>"Until the end,' I swore, those long, long years passed… they are as reaped fields, grains long forgotten amidst winters and harvests." He nodded. "And so I will hold true to my oath, until the end, be it the enemy's… or mine." He turned back to his younger friend and set his hand firmly on his shoulder, where the Dread had rent his armor.</p><p>"I'm glad you came, but we have lost so many… Cerista, she fell..." Samulson said, his joy long lost amidst death and darkness.</p><p>"So am I, so am I. Would that I had seen the truth sooner, yet now is not the hour for lament. We must press the attack, and not let her death be in vain. Let us take heart! In this dark hour, I would see you rally the free peoples to victory."</p><p>"Me?" Samulson asked, surprised.</p><p>"Aye. There is a captain to be found in you yet. Rally them, Sam, and lead them to victory in haste. For I fear what will become of these lands should we fail, our enemy allowed to fester from this position of strength," added Haslor, tone darker than before.</p><p>Samulson looked to the courtyard, the gruesome field of battle where billowing mist lingered still, and ere the sun set lifted up his spear. Amidst the wrath of Gramsfoot and the harried, and last, daughter of Shelob, he held high his weapon before the billowing darkness that remained. Beside him, Haslor clasped his hand on Samulson's arm, and together the two heroes stood before the fray.</p><p>"Until the end!" shouted Samulson over the clamor of battle.</p><p>The free peoples turned, heartened, and their reply rose as a wave of hope that smote a dark and perilous shore.</p><p>
  <b>UNTIL THE END!</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 16</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>WHAT LIES AT THE ROAD'S END</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The back door of Tol Ascarnen stood nigh empty, well lit by the late afternoon sun, as the battle raged beneath, though surrounding it was a corpse pile laden with the foes of the free peoples. Near it, a small band of champions, minstrels, and guardians awaited the foes who would attempt to flee the castle through stealth or guile. Below, the battle had turned, and the free peoples had withstood the tactics of their dreaded foe. Many advanced to the stairs towards the captain general's room, though it too stood empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell waited, shield and sword in hand, beside a great pile of rubble upon the landing. Her brow was covered in sweat and dirt, and her arm had grown weary from the sword's weight. Yet still she fought, for friend, kin, and home, and naught would stay her purpose. For she had seen her kin slain, and many she worried after as she had no sight of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though her thoughts would not quiet, she watched intently for the enemy, and her efforts were not in vain. For from the archway south came weavers, a warleader, and a band of orcs left bloody from the battle beneath. They ran forth, unaware of the small band of free peoples, and were met with swift conflict which left several slain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet a few passed through the trap door and to the passage beneath, whence, were they fortunate, they might escape to a river crossing to the northwest. The free peoples pursued them, for they were of no mind to allow the servants of Gramsfoot passage, and Lucibell was left alone within the room to guard it from any who would dare pass within. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waited, gaze drifting between trap door and archway - alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or so believed, for a long shadow had come behind her, and its presence was unnoticed until she turned and laid sight upon it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing mere feet before the archway was an uruk of great rank, her bow drawn and aimed. Lucibell saw madness within her eyes, the flesh across her arms and legs had been scratched so that threads of flesh hung loose, and her fingers were slick with her own blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell dared not move, for the uruk seemed as a caged beast, something untamed and wild, and it frightened her to think what she might do. Mere death would be a mercy, though uruks conceived far more for their victims than a swift end. Lucibell's thoughts strayed to the horrors that might befall her, and she thought to quickly bare arms in a desperate hope to survive long enough for reinforcements. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet the arrow did not fly, the uruk did not move, and Lucibell expected every passing moment to be her last… yet they were not, for she stood still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you waiting for?" Lucibell asked at last, her voice not without a tremor, though the uruk's gaze became less wild. Her snarl softened to a grimace. The madness withdrew, as a foam upon a tide, and Lucibell knew a small measure of relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Step aside, </span>
  <em>
    <span>glob</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Let me pass." Black blood dripped from the uruk's arm, and her breath seemed labored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I cannot. I swore to protect this door, and slay any of your kind who drew near," Lucibell replied, her courage rising. The fingers on her sword hilt gripped tighter as she waited for a moment to strike, and perhaps gain an advantage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet while Lucibell waited, the uruk lowered her bow and the string slackened. She heaved a great breath, weary, and her shoulders slumped forward. Lucibell raised both sword and shield, and she made ready to sing, yet stalled. Before her, her foe's head lowered, and no strength seemed to remain - merely an overwhelming weariness, and a hollowed shell whence all ferocity seemed sucked dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't understand," Lucibell said slowly. Down below, the sound of battle echoed across the stone, and the screams of orcs rang across the isle. "A moment ago, you seemed ready to kill me. Why not do so and flee?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The uruk's head raised, and her hollow gaze studied Lucibell's, yet her only reply, even as her brethren were slain below, was said swiftly and quietly as a step across fresh grass, "I desire no more of this, I wish only to return home."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell thought of little Lily, clothed in a warm winter dress and golden grains of wheat threaded through her thick hair, their home's freshly-painted door behind her. It would be shimmering with frost, as winter was not yet ended. An awning, oft burdened with snow, kept the door in shadow, the sun's warmth rarely able to touch the cold planks of the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She saw Wren, hair as dark as good soil and caught in a breeze, smiling as she returned from the garden. Her lips tasted of Shire apples and smoked charr, and their home smelled of wood smoke, baked bread, and the lingering sweet of Lily's carved pumpkins set beside the hearth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell knew the feeling of the cold bricks of the kitchen beneath her feet, the sound of her wife singing while she played the lute in their den, and the lingering aroma of dried meats from their cellar. There was far more to see, more still to feel, for it was home.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Let me pass." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words roused Lucibell from her thoughts, though her shield and sword seemed to have long since lowered. She looked from the uruk to the back door, and then shook her head. The uruk seemed dismayed, though did not move to raise her bow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I cannot let you pass that way, for if I do," Lucibell breathed deep the putrid air of the castle, and it smelled of the foul stench of battle, "they would surely see you, and you would be slain."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The uruk looked to her, grief in her red eyes, and nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There is another way, if you have the strength to try. You can escape them if you hold firm to the stones beneath the window," Lucibell turned to it, "and leap to the trees beyond. Then, you might pass the river north and find a cove with a high wall, yet if you follow it you will come to a long slope to the southwest… it will end before Lugazag, and there you will be among your people."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The uruk did as she was bidden, moving swiftly and with strength Lucibell had seldom seen to the open window overlooking a grove of trees to the north. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet she paused before leaping, muscled shoulders tense and slick with blood. Turning, she regarded Lucibell, eyes red and gleaming. "Tell me, what is your name?" she asked, voice deep and fierce.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lucibell, of Stock," the minstrel answered, voice low. For she mistrusted the uruk still, and was afraid she had made a grievous error.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, Lucibell of Stock, and know this - your quality shall be known among your enemies, until they are your enemies no longer." Her bloodstained fist touched her breast in swift salute. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hanuz, mau.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the speed of shadow, she flung herself from castle wall to tree, and from tree to a moss-covered boulder. Soon after the uruk came to the river, Lucibell lost sight of her… but still she wondered, heart laden with guilt from her mistrust, what path had led the uruk hence. What her name was, and what manner of life had led her to these lands, so long held by her enemy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell wondered still if she was truly an enemy at all, and if she had been given a choice… would she have come to these forsaken lands, so long ravaged by war and greed? Or would she have stayed, in peace, within the lands she came from?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Such thoughts troubled her as the battle neared its end, yet she knew not then, or after, the answers to her thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the battlefields of war are stained red with blood and questions both, yet reason, if it exists at all, is as seldom seen as mercy in the tides of conquest. Though she resolved one thing while peering through the window as the free peoples returned from below, bragging about the number slain by their skill at arms, and one thing alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She would forsake war, her friends and kin, her very oaths and purpose - for war had brought with it a land divided, peoples sundered, and she wanted no more of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She would, at last, seek what lay at road's end…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Chapter 17</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>THE LAND OF OUR PEOPLE</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun hung low in the west, shining bright over the Hoarwell and the sandy shores beyond the land of Hithlad. The banners of River Outpost crested above the gentle hills to the west and could barely be seen through a sparse wood across the bank from Tol Ascarnen, illuminated by the last rays of day. The river seemed aflame, Anor's brilliant gleam reflected across the water's gentle, rippling waters. Reflected also was a lone man, laying upon the southern shore of Tol Ascarnen's beach, beset by a small pack of wargs and two reavers, and a wide ring of corpses who had learned firsthand his skill with the sword.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan lay on the shore, alone, the wound in his neck caked with blood and sand. He had earned many others besides as the remnants of Angmar's army came upon him, one after another, and wounded him as he waded in and out of consciousness upon the shore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Easy, boys," said Mutalic, who had tracked Rastlan and his fellowship across the island and found them at last. Upon the spikes of his armor were more heads, freshly hewn, of those who had fallen to his blades, and warm blood ran still across his scarred back and shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, the wargs snarled and their hides bristled. "Seems he's not yet finished. One more maggot hole will do him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan watched as the warband drew closer. The strength in his limbs was spent, but he ignored the truth. For a warrior's pride would not allow him to falter, or admit what he had come to know in his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold. Terrifying. The truth was a plunge into the waters beside Sûri-kylä, for his limbs seized and mind was adrift and without focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sudden lurch, a warg sprang forward and was met with Rastlan's cutting attack. The creature wailed in anguish and fell to the sand, slain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Argh! You </span>
  <em>
    <span>tark!</span>
  </em>
  <span> On him, now!" screamed Mutalic, and those who remained leapt upon him as one with cries of battle, fangs, and blades.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet. Valar, lend me strength.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan threw dust in their eyes, blinding three, and addled Mutalic. With their weaknesses revealed, he exposed the throat of a warg, and landed a lucky strike against the reaver of lower rank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All but Mutalic fell to the sand, their wounds fatal, to join the ring of their fallen brethren who had come upon Rastlan and thought their infamy was assured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wretch!" yelled Mutalic as he saw his warband was slain. His long blades drug across the beach, for he was tired also. "This is your end."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan laughed and coughed up blood. "So many have said, ere they met their own. See their folly before you, fool."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Mutalic drew near, Rastlan feinted an attack, but the reaver was too skilled to fall for the trick. With a swiftness uncommon to men, Rastlan's flashing blades struck his foe, but the assault was halted by both Mutalic's curved blade and armor. His foot slammed against Rastlan's sword arm then, breaking it, and kept it pinned in the sand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And so at last you die, Rastlan, called Hero of the Ettenmoors though you are little more than filth! Beneath the devastating strike of Mutalic you will meet your end!" The orc raised his blade high, eyes wide with gleeful malice, and with all the strength that remained to him thrust downward to cut deep through Rastlan's mail and leather hauberk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet he was met only with great pain, and his strike sunk deep into the sand, not Rastlan. Beneath Mutalic, his foe had turned to the side and taken up Malendol's sword, for where it had once been hidden. The sword was sunk deep into Mutalic's groin, to the hilt, and the tip had escaped through his back between his shoulder blades. Beneath him, Rastlan began to laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Staring with horror at the pain and sight of himself skewered so, the reaver muttered. "I- I."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet Rastlan's laughter only increased, as if he had gone mad, until at last he spoke through his mirth, "I impaled you! In your last breath, know that my sword satisfied where none other has, and that you met your end with your own attack!" Roaring with laughter, his wounds burning from the strain of it, he twisted his weapon and yanked Malendol's sword free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Black blood flowed across the sand as the reaver fell, slain by the elven sword and Rastlan's mischievous delight, though in his dying rage Mutalic's scimitar at last hew his foe to the hilt, pinning Rastlan to the sand, from whence he would never rise again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so passed Mutalic, known by all as the Lord of Reavers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From the north, Meow followed the tracks of foes and nature and came upon the ring of corpses about Rastlan. In the west, Anor had set, and the last remnants of his warmth were splayed across the Hoarwell in hues of deep auburn, and across the scattered canopies of trees. But in the east, night had come, and the moon could be seen across the southern bank, and Menelmacar high above, for he would honor valorous warriors from afar after battle, as was his wont. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaken, Meow rushed forward, past the ring of corpses, to her friend. Yet seeing him alone and still in the sand, she was overcome with grief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," she whispered while kneeling beside him, bow cast to the side. "No!" Her hand trembled and gentle fingers traced down his cheek to his jaw, but she saw that he had breath still, and that brought her some relief. With effort, she began to draw him forward, but Rastlan awoke and stayed her efforts, for the reaver's scimitar was still in his breast and would not be moved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leave me, Meow," he said softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, you're awake!" She smiled down upon him as light from the sunset painted her brow and cheeks a dark crimson. A hand rushed over the worst of the wounds on his neck, yet she saw his skin was deathly pale. "Come. Let's have you away to Saeldris, she can see to your wounds and lift your spirits."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Rastlan gripped her small hand, made rough from the bow string. "It is over." As his neck moved, blood flowed easily from the warg's bite, the festering wound blackened from dried blood, and Rastlan began to close his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't - don't say that," Meow said, her voice failing her as tears rushed from her eyes like gentle spring runoff winter's snow. "Don't say that, Rast." She held his hand firm. "Stay with me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes opened, and he attempted one of his brash smiles. "Not this time. My strength to live is fading."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above him, Meow looked on, stricken with pain, and was uncertain of what to do. For there lay her friend, and that he might die filled her with grief beyond measure. Yet he turned from her, gaze cast across the reflected sunset.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will not easily forget these lands," he sighed while turning to look north. "The mountains…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And though Rastlan had no great skill with song, for he was no minstrel, or skilled with poetry, for he had little care for art, the strength of his spirit drew forth what he perceived in his heart as though it were truth, and Meow bore witness as well, for in that moment the strength of the West burned as fire within him, from which none can escape its warmth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Far beyond the isle of rushing water, the mountains of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hithaeglir </span>
  </em>
  <span>seemed to stand before the two friends as if they were before the deep valleys of Arador's End. Peaks shrouded in clouds gazed down upon them, the mountains' ridges laden with jagged rock and ice, and the frozen chill of that land was upon them with an icy breath. In the distance, an eagle cried while snow rushed from the mountain tops and descended into the valley in sheets of white. Atop a snow drift nearby, a frenzied fell-maw paced away, snorting, and took a turn rolling in the snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So sure was Meow of the chill that she shivered, yet her tears did not freeze, for though the lands were bitter cold the memory of them was warm. Rastlan breathed deep the cold air, and he remembered more, for his adoration of the Ettenmoors was great, and his love of that land surpassed all in his heart, even that of his kinsman.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beneath them, the snow-covered valleys made way for the gentle, grassy slopes and the rolling hills of Coldfells. Rastlan could feel his hand tracing the rough surface of a boulder upon the large hill leading to Glân Vraig, and his feet brushed through thick, lush grass as green as the banners of Edoras. Warm air unsettled his black hair, and nearby a bear with golden fur flopped onto its haunches. Above, on the boulder, Meow looked down upon him, the breeze in her hair, and they laughed briefly, pain nigh forgotten, the bitter sadness a tethered memory as the strange spell continued. Lost, adrift, they seemed to stay for hours, or perhaps moment, as time became a thing discordant. </span>
</p><p><span>Birds fluttered by, but</span> <span>Rastlan felt his spirit and memory fading. The air smelled suddenly of pines and birch trees, and light from Ithil and stars shone through the canopy of the forest around him. In the distance was the Lumber Camp, before it fell to the enemy, and Rastlan felt a great sense of peace. He had been in the wilds for as long as he could remember, and the woods, with their shadows and cover, were where he had spent much of his time. </span></p><p>
  <span>There he sat upon a fallen log, long coated with verdant moss, and Meow was beside him. In the light of the stars she smiled, and mere moments seemed an eternity as he watched the night sky reflected in her dark gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As his spirit began to fade, Rastlan felt the beach and heard the Hoarwell flowing past, now dark, the sun's light spent, and the river reflected the dark blanket of Varda and her striking stars. He clung to the memories, but it was for naught, for even his wit had begun to fade, and the world around him had grown as numb as his limbs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Save your strength," wept Meow. "The battle is at its end. There is a chance you might be saved."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan shook his head. "I think not, but I would trade none of it. I regret only that there are none to stand in my stead, no one to grief the servants of the Enemy as I have, no one to lay ruin to their pride."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment there was silence between them, broken only by Meow's quiet sobs and Rastlan's labored breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am uncertain what valour I possess," said Meow while straightening. She laid her hand upon his chest, and the other wiped tears from her cheek. "But I will let no day pass where the servants of the Eye do not feel the sting of my barrage, no day where they are not haunted by my tracks and swift passage. The lands of your people will not fall to ruin, Rast. I won't let them. I will not rest until they are renewed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rastlan wept with relief to hear her oath, and Meow with him, as he grasped her hand. "Not my land-" he rasped as blood trickled from his lips. "Our land." Meow bent forward, and their brows met in his final moments. "Our land. Love her, always, and she will care for you as she has for me… until the end."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He choked, and she shushed him, but he would not listen. His hand slid from hers as her fingertips trembled down the side of his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Until the end," whispered Rastlan, "I am glad it is this way… until the end, with friends." His eyes closed, grey and wondrous, and would see only Varda's tapestry above as was fated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meow felt his spirit depart, for it was strong and filled with purpose and fire as the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dúnadain</span>
  </em>
  <span> of old. It warmed her in passing, and the heat of it kindled her strength and resolve. As he lay still, she watched his darkened countenance, lit by stars and moon, and embraced him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So am I."</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>~*~~~~*&lt;&gt;*~~~~*~</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>EPILOGUE</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cisterns blazed, illuminating the wartorn courtyard of Tol Ascarnen during the foredawn. The sky above had grown red, Ithil's white radiance shrouded by foreboding crimson in the west. Though it was night, many figures busied themselves throughout the castle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The remains of the enemy of the free peoples had been hauled from the halls of Tol Ascarnen and set upon the west lawn, near the bridge, and no watch had been set there. It was agreed that burning the enemy was poor council, that they should be welcome to see to the corpses as they would, and that none should impede them in this effort as a show of truce and goodwill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the early evening, a herald had been sent across the west bridge bearing a white flag and missive from the free peoples. Meeting no resistance, she pinned a long scroll of parchment to the broken walls before Lugazag. Upon it, the Army of Gramsfoot was told they may collect their dead, such as they were, with no fear of assault or retribution. But should they bear arms east or south again, coming within bowshot of the Elf Camp, or venture too far beyond the plains before Dâr-gazag with ill intent, there would be battle. Yet should they come with a mind to trade or plow good earth, they would be lent goods or lands appropriate to their need. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The herald left and descended the hill, and she returned safely to the front gate of Tol Ascarnen in the middle of the night. She was greeted with song and drink, for many elves had gathered, and their chorus of lament, though sung softly, could be heard across the whole isle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Haslor and Rastlan had been placed on biers of shaped stone. One to the north, upon which Rastlan lay, his hair washed and combed and body made fair, was flanked by two cisterns. He wore his raiment, and his weapons lay beside him. Nearby was Meow, for she still grieved, and naught could part her from his side. Many friends passed to comfort her, yet all were grieved to see him so and lingered, though none as long as she. For such was his fire in life that it was not easy to accept its fading, as the lives of all men must. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still within the courtyard, Haslor lay to the south on a separate bier made of stone. His ancient armor had been removed, for it was a relic of his house and would be gifted to the most deserving. He was clad in silver and blue garb of the elves, the cloth soft and shimmering with the light of a nearby fire. Like his gear, Númenverist would pass to another, but Saeldris had set it within his grasp so that he might hold it still, even unto the twilight of his death, for a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elves, men, hobbits, and dwarves visited the two Lords of Men, and their friends who had fallen either in battle or during the siege. As evening passed to night, the chorus of lament began, for Rastlan and Haslor and their many fallen kin, and the air seemed more dense and thickened by their sadness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Within the halls of Tol Ascarnen, many bodies still lay where they had been slain, and Falcon searched them by torchlight, steps careful so that the dead might lay undisturbed. Samulson had not been heard or seen since the free peoples pressed beyond the eastern corridor and took the courtyard. The air was foul there, and few dared brave it, for the carapace of the Dread lay slain against one of the walls. Surrounded by soldiers of the Coldfells Army, their skin turned vile and green from the wretchedness of the massive weaver, the horror of her remains lay unbothered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Corpses of the free peoples and the enemy lay together, but many had begun the task of hauling orcs, uruks, and wargs to the west lawn. There were few weavers, a mystery they could not unravel. However, the remains of the free peoples were brought to the courtyard and its entrance. Some were laid on biers of wood, but many were placed on mats of straw, and torches were set about them so that their faces might be seen by those who yet lived and searched for their brethren.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around him, Falcon heard the soft lament of the elves. Their song echoed through the halls as his lamp shone down on the battered remains of the fallen, their voices were as the wintery winds of Arador's End - forlorn melodies upon cold, dreary gusts, yet not without beauty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I galan thelyn olardaen,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Megil elvellyn agarwaen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Na veth guruthos dagrathar </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Min hoedh thelyn postar faen</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I nern noer hin ui-linnathar</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Na i beled in edhil</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh naegúr an chodhil.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the scarce light, he saw many faces he knew. His expression grew grim to see so many fallen, but such was the fate of soldiers who possessed little might, and not the vitality of his people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, as the hymn continued, Falcon felt someone walking near. He turned to see Saeldris, bearing a lantern. Her chin was raised, and her gaze, always seeming to be specked with starlight, was upon him. Around them, the lament did not end, but its melody was slow and drawn, as though hope yet remained for it all to have been a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leave me," Falcon said softly, his voice quieted beneath the spell of the hymn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You think you are alone in your grief, Falcon of the Beornings?" Saeldris asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I lost a man who was as brother," Falcon growled. "He may yet live, dying in ruin, with none to attend him. Do not speak to me of grief." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With sudden strength, he hefted a dead uruk by its armor and flung the corpse aside in anger. His strength was far from spent despite the battle and hour of their search, yet Samulson and none who yet lived were revealed to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My kin lies slain. It shall be long years before we are reunited again," Saeldris answered, for Edharon had been overcome in battle while wrestling with a warg who had mauled Tibulant, his helm split by a rever's ax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knight from Rohan was saved, but Edharon was grievously injured. His body had been placed in a casket of </span>
  <em>
    <span>mallorn</span>
  </em>
  <span> with silver trim, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>randir</span>
  </em>
  <span> vowed to bear it to Mithlond where it would be carried by ship to the Undying Lands. There, his spirit would be returned, in some form, and Saeldris would be reunited with her cousin ere long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And Rastlan was as kin to me, near a brother," and that was so. Saeldris and the burglar had braved the wilds together for many years, and his passing was the greatest weight on her heart, for they would never meet again, and she worried her lesson had led him to the passage of death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between them, the song lowered and the light of their torch and lantern seemed to grow dim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon grunted. His broad shoulders lowered, and though he had little love for the high elves, masters of stone and iron craft, as it was they who helped kindle the power of the Dark Lord in ages past, his heart was softened from their hymn. He nodded. "Let us search together, then, for our lost friend."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them sought their fallen friend through the corpse-pile, and while they found few who yet lived and were saved, their true pursuit took many hours. As they searched, the lament of the elves continued, yet it did not lift their spirits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When all else had been searched, Falcon turned at last to the carapace of the Dread, and the weight of his worry was like a dead weight upon his limbs and courage. His endurance was great, though he feared what evil it possessed, and what he might find beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With all his might, Falcon thrust aside one of the massive legs of the last daughter of Shelob. Beneath, crushed before the weaver's body, was a cloak he knew well. Roaring, afraid, he hefted the foul remains as much as he was able, and Saeldris bore Samulson from beneath and took him to a pillar as Falcon collapsed in anguish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His skin was green and sickly, covered in a wretched membrane that clung to their fingers. His eyes had gone pale, and Saeldris saw that his wounds were not common for venom and poison. They were of dark magic, foul sorcery of a student of necromancy, the craft ancient and despicable, used to draw spirits into the realm of shadow whence they would become </span>
  <em>
    <span>cargûl.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wraiths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falcon and Saeldris were powerful healers both, one wielding the art of nature and the other </span>
  <em>
    <span>nestad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the healing arts of the elves, but Samulson's wounds were beyond their skill to heal. Many more wept as minstrels and lore masters saw to him, but none succeeded in lifting the dreadful sorcery of Mordor, and Samulson fell farther into the shadow as dawn approached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the elves' lament grew sadder still, for those who sang were fond of the warden and witnessed his strength in battle, and the resolve it gave those around him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Night waned, and Ithil set beyond the mountains to the west. Those gathered had little relief, for the castle</span> <span>seemed haunted by a dire gloom... and death. In the hour before the rise of Anor, Falcon laid Samulson on a bier beside Haslor. A sleeping draught was made to give Samulson final rest, so that his spirit would know peace, and not drift into shadow where it would linger in Middle-earth in anguish, or become bound to evil purpose.</span></p><p>
  <span>"This plan fills my heart with dread," said Falcon, who stayed beside his dearest friend. "What we do, I feel it is in service to the enemy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around them, the fires in the cisterns had gone low, though many embers remained. Yet dawn had come, though the light from the east was yet dim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Better his spirit tread to the halls of his fathers than linger in Middle-earth, enslaved in darkness. For he will be no friend of ours, but a wraith, ensnared in evil," said Saeldris. Around them, the soft song of the elves continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He would want it this way, for Samulson I have known longest since coming to these lands," spoke Bolli quietly, and, for once, all listened. "He would rather fall upon his own spear than serve the enemy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucibell knelt beside Samulson and Haslor, weary, a hand upon the warden's leg. "Never before have I felt so. Today has taken much from us. I cannot bear it," and still she longed for home, though she told none, for the hour had filled her with grief she had never known before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tibulant stood behind them, head lowered. "It is a mercy," he said softly. "We all love Sam. But what we do, it is born of kindness, not evil, for we would not have him become a slave to the shadow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearby, Alcarnarmo lifted a hand and placed it upon Samulson's chest, and Neemiriel joined him - her soft fingers laced amidst his in silent grief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is so," the Smith said to Tibulant. "Long ago, ere the return of such evil to these lands, we learned the price of goodness." His dark eyes looked to Saeldris, who held the vial of draught meant to lend Samulson final rest, and he nodded. "Let us give him peace, ere the hour of his death, before the curse within him takes hold and speeds his spirit free."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet beside them, Falcon scowled. "What is your meaning, elf?" he asked of Alcarnarmo the Smith. "That we must do evil ourselves to see the world made fair? That our steel must end the lives of those we love so that the many may know peace!?" His voice rose, and his ire was great. "I will hear none of this. Stay your hand, for I refuse to abandon hope!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saeldris set a hand on the beorning's shoulder, and that stalled his wrath. She spoke softly, "Look to the east, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mellon</span>
  </em>
  <span>." He turned, and starlight seemed to be strewn across her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond her, the first rays of the day shown. The light touched Falcon's long hair, cheeks, and beard, and the warmth of the sun brought relief from the cold damp of night. Eyes closed, he breathed deeply, and so did his kin around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anor yet rises, a new day, and with him there is hope. Yet not without the sacrifice of kin and brethren." Saeldris sighed deeply. "For each new day brings the hope for peace, gladness, and the end to this cruel war - that we who remain may see its end." Her hand left his broad chest, and for the first time in many years Falcon felt at ease. "For the price of hope is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sacrifice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The price of goodness…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All turned to Samulson. His skin had grown paler, and its green hue coursed through his veins. Sweat lined his brow, and his breathing was ragged. Beside him lay Haslor, cold, proud, and honored in death clutching the halberd of Fingolfin's guard. At last they saw Rastlan, and all thought fondly of his strength in life, for he had made them laugh, and spurred them to great renown, and the memory of all filled them with grief and hope as one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"... </span>
  <em>
    <span>death</span>
  </em>
  <span>," spoke Saeldris at last as daylight sped across the courtyard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, all gathered knew the cause for the great sorrow of the elves. The first born of the children of Iluvitar understood, better than all, the great tragedy and suffering of Middle-earth and its peoples, both those who fought for freedom and those enslaved to the wills of evil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So stirred, as Anor's light reached across the courtyard, fate gifted new hope to the kinship. For when sunlight touched Haslor's halberd, he breathed one last breath and raised his arm. His spirit departed with the warmth of the sun, fleeing the mournful sorrow of both kin and lament sung by the elves, from whence it sped swiftly to the Halls of Men far beyond western shores and to the end of the Encircling Sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His arm fell after the final breath, yet mighty Nûmenverist came into the grasp of Samulson. Those gathered watched in awe as Samulson's fingers curled around the halberd's blue grip, and pale light began to stretch from the treasured weapon of the first age.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As moments passed, Nûmenverist's gem came to shine with a light so glaring all gathered could scarcely look into its brilliance. Pale, radiant, and ardent, Anor's warmth was nothing in comparison, for the gem was as a star gleaming before them. The shadows that had befallen the castle were bourne away, and when the light retreated the kinship saw what remained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samulson lay before them, blue eyes open, life and morale restored, his foul wounds no more than faint scars. For in the hour of dawn, the power of the west met that of the east, and the great powers of the world saw Oath-Keeper of the West had named one worthy, as Fingolfin's curse had bidden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Samulson's oath was, and always had been to friend and kin, "Until the end," and no oath in Arda was more gracious or binding, nor more deserving of hope.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the years that followed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>simbelmynë </span>
  </em>
  <span>came to grow upon the two stone tombs set in the courtyard of Tol Ascranen. Between them, near the east wall, was a statue of a bearded man bearing a warden's shield and halberd held aloft, a pale stone set in the long pole, and a crawling vine was allowed to grow and flower upon it. Upon the opposing side of the courtyard stood another statue, feet taller than the man, of an uruk who gripped a longbow, its end resting against the good earth. Before her, dozens of offerings were left upon a tiered dais, fresh goods and forsaken weapons left to rest and rot, and she was oft called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sîdgovad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Peace-Bringer, and many honored her by discarding their arms and armor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The names of the four heroes were lost, yet memory of their valour remained, always. For they were as Lords of the West, and the beautiful flowers and courtyard became a place of quiet calm whence both sun and moonlight shown, reflected bright upon the gem set in the statue. Many still came to think of the old heroes as guardians of peace, for all peoples of Middle-earth were welcome amidst them in the courtyard of Tol Ascarnen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, at last, the lands were at peace.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>On this day, heroes fell,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Swords of elf-friends were bloodstained,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Until the end shades will be fought,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Within dead-halls rest the heroes, radiant.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Evermore these sad tales will be sung,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unto the fading of the elves,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of the heartache that lead them to burial mounds.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
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